The Fall
by LittleHoneyDew
Summary: Amelia Cornwall. Her name assured her a lifetime of privileges and wealth. Yet, she found only dismay and isolation in the shadow of her father's fame. Ashamed and resentful of his daughter, Leviticus leaves her to the untamed city of Saint Denis. To the Van der Linde Gang it was a quick ransom and easy money. To her, it was a shot of redemption.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone!**

**Thank you for checking my little crappy masterpiece! So I was drunk one night - isn't that how all good stories start? - and that's how I got this idea. That didn't sound good. Okay anyways, please follow, favorite and review if you like! Hope you enjoy!**

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I didn't want to leave the home I had grown to hate and that is as true as it is odd.

Twenty - one years I had secluded myself, raised by governess, who were under qualified but a treat for Father, and influenced by the high society my father always threw parties for. The only thing I knew about the outside world came from newspaper articles and story books.

I was the daughter of a magnate, who had his names painted in gold across train cars, buildings and factories, and that was what I believed I would die being. The name Cornwall was the only legacy I would ever leave in this world. It's not what I was keen to, I wanted more like all do, but solitude was so routine since Mother's death, I knew nothing else and feared anything than that.

So when I was summoned to Father's quarters, I was hesitant.

We hadn't spoken since last month, considering he was down west overseeing his tar company and occupying the time of show girls. Or any woman that would give him the attention. Sin doesn't matter down there I once read, since God abandoned it a long time ago.

I suspected why he wanted to speak to me and prepared my argument as I wandered down corridor after corridor to his office. I had seven older, half - siblings, all who were Father's pride and joy, but mostly pride.

There was Leviticus Jr. who was Father's dog, handling paperwork and all duties that bored him. Lindsey, the second oldest, erected his own company selling cane sugar and coffee beans while his wife designed naughty lingerie for the bland housewife. Marigold wed the governor of California several summers ago, occasionally writing to us to express her love for the ocean. Mildred traveled across seas to Poland, or somewhere to embrace other cultures or some sort of charity scheme, I forgot. Francis was campaigning for mayor of a small city in New York, while his brother Malcolm offered him and the people legal service. Jane was attending seminars at a female only college, to broaden her salt sized mind.

Then there was me, the youngest, save Adele, who did not share their prosperity and was defiling the Cornwall name.

Father was humiliated and didn't restrict himself from telling me.

I spared all the time I could to face him, from the quick fire interrogations and insults and yet there I was, standing outside his door while his screams reflected off the wall.

"I will not be robbed again, by this bastard criminal!"

Reaching the door my jaw constricted.

"I am paying you and your men good money to apprehend him, why is it taking so long?" I heard Father inquire while hauling books from his table to the floor.

"Rest assure, sir, Van der Linde isn't as devious and concealed as he once was," a foreign voice persuaded. "There's been mutable sighting of his followers in _."

As the tension calmed, their words became quieter and unrecognizable. My interest forced me closer to the door and yet it was too late. A man, dressed in taupe suit and an over sized hat, emerged, pushing past me like I wasn't even there. He worked with a determination, like something at hand and I assumed with Father, that was money.

"Amelia, my daughter," called Father and my eyes shifted to him, sitting at his desk with a hand out towards a chair. "Sit with me."

"He seems nice," I said with a low laugh he didn't share. I took the chair across from him and drew in the sight of his office. I hadn't been in it for years. A chandelier illuminated the room, for the bay windows shades were drawn, leaving the room feel ominous. Rosewood bookshelves lined the west wall, while a fireplace stood unlit by the doorway and medieval paintings faced me. In the heart of it all was Father's desk, carved with initials on both sides and blanketed by maps and papers scattered on top.

"It's been a while since we talked," he started.

"Has it?" I said with eyes still on my black flats.

"Jane is attending classes in Berthlem over the summer," he said.

"And you want me to come with?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

His chair cried as he reclined farther back, while steadily shaking his head. "No actually, I have something else for you. I've already wasted enough money on your schooling that you refused to finish."

I shifted uncomfortably to the memory.

"My businesses have been expanding down south, I've been doing a great deal of traveling down in those parts and I think it might be beneficial if you and Adele were to stay in the city of Saint Denis for the summer," he pressed. "There's a vast range of culture down there that is worth experience."

The mentioning of Adele made me tremble.

Adele was a mistake, Father's failure to temptation and a bastard child to a French foreigner Father hired as my governess. Some called her my sister, but she wasn't.

"I don't think so," I sighed.

"You're into that feminists or women suffrage, aren't you?" he questioned.

I was educated, for the most part, and had read about feminism, religion, ethics, and politics and yet I had never experienced it first hand. Talking about it was a foreign language to me.

"I don't really know," I whispered.

"Well Saint Denis has it fair share of them. Damaged women. Waste a time I think, but maybe favorable for you," Father insisted. "I know since your Mother's death -"

The color drained from my face and my mouth dried to the mentioning. It had been nine years, but the smell of gunpowder still lingered in my nose. The sight of my mother's body, lolling in a pool of crimson blood and her eyes - that shared the same green as mine - were wide open followed me into my dreams.

"Amelia," he said, his tone escalating to retrieve me from my thoughts, "you must move on. Constant's chose her own faith. And you must accept that to start living your own life. If I had mourned for as long as you did -"

"I wish I had mourned as long as you had," I breathed and his brow furrowed like caterpillars. "I wish I had pretended it hurt for a week and married my daughter's governess I was obviously having an affair with a week after that."

I flushed red from my fumes, as I scrambled from my chair and pardoned myself. The fleeting stare he gave me was blank. There's nothing but a tense silence as I reached the door, that he broke through before I could go.

"It's Adele, Amelia, I'm worried for. Her mother, I know how you feel about her, but her pox are festering. She won't survive." Father's charisma could make even the deaf admire him. "I have seen the distraught you've handle, I don't want my other daughter to struggle the way. Adele is only a child, a little girl, no matter what you think she is. I don't want her leaving for the city alone.

"Saint Denis has everything to keep you occupied. Theaters, restaurants, lovely country north of it and a waterfront, all the things you love to read about. I'll make my way down to see you two on occasion." He pursued me enough and yet he couldn't stop. "I need you to grow, Amelia, from a weeping, self - pitying girl to a promising woman. Books cannot be your whole life. Neither can the imprisonment you force upon yourself."

Father's words made my chest drop inside and my body sting.

While I hated Adele, I hated the grief that I had succumbed too far more. I hated knowing my voice and will to live had died with her. The only memory I knew of her now came from the day she died. And more than that, I hated Father and his belittling approach and relentless judgement. It was something I often hope would end one day, but there was never one in sight. Maybe this was my chance, to spare another person from that grief and heartache, or to spare myself from anymore criticism.

"And….we'll come back….in the fall, right?" I whispered through a dry throat.

"Of course," he assured.

There was nothing left to say. Father had always influenced my faith, so I breathed out a resisting, "Alright."


	2. Chapter 2

A week had passed since my arrival to Saint Denis and I had yet to change like Father had hope.

The first person I met was the human form of the city itself; Mayor Henri Lemieux. He was an oddly shaped fellow, with thick sideburns and an unproportionate face covered by thick glasses that made me think he belonged in a laboratory as a demented scientist. But then he spoke in such a smooth tone with a gentle accent, it made sense. He was a model of Father - wealthy, charismatic and subtly corrupt.

Father's home in Saint Denis was only a block down from Lemieux's manor and surrounded by other high - end homes. It was smaller than I thought it would be, but comfortable, had it not been placed in the active city. The patio in the backyard, shaded by a fully grown willow tree, was my only content. I stay there throughout the day, reading novel after novel and penning in my journal. I could have survived the rest of the summer in that position, until I returned home.

"Miss." A servant rushed out in speech with a letter occupying her hands. "Miss Cornwall, Mayor Lemieux requested this be delivered to you."

Accepting the paper, I breathed out a thank you and unfold it. My eyes ran down the paper, observing only fleet details, before setting it down and releasing a heavy sigh.

"Problem, miss?" she asked and I was too apprehended by nerves and agitation to remember she was standing there. "Miss Cornwall?"

Retrieving myself I exhaled and stiffly laughed to ease her. "Seems is inviting Adele and I to one of his private parties."

"Why, that's rather generous of him," she commented.

I politely pardoned her, needing the silence to collect myself and conceive an excuse to attend the party. None of them would work. By the end of the week I was fitted into a new dress - a burgundy gown with half - way sleeves, a front corset with black ties and an exhausting amount of lace. The layer of makeup made my face heavy and foul feeling. My honey shade hair was twisted and pinned into an uncomfortable braided crown that evoked a headache. And yet all who attempted to speak to me at the party said I looked lovely.

"Amelia Cornwall? Why you're not the one who married Governor Alfred Allerton?" inquired a women, the wife of a businessman who was looking to conjoin with Father or something of that sort.

"No," I whispered. "That's my sister, Marigold."

"I don't think your Father mentioned you when we met," her husband remarked while the color of his wife's face drained.

"Probably not," I admitted and excused myself.

"Well, she is unmannerly and crassed, isn't she?" I heard his wife seeth and the words stung. Father always had a title for me, a comment to make and I always believe him. I was indeed a misfit. An outcast. But hearing those words from someone who didn't even know me made my insides tremble.

Running my eyes through the room, I felt the cool, judging glare of everyone on me even when they weren't even looking. They all looked the same, men in three - piece ebony suits and gray streaks in their hair with brandy in hand and boosting about their careers and investment. Women were glimmering in diamonds and jewels, but bulging in their layered dresses. Their laughter surrounded me, suffocating me farther and farther until my vision fell into a void.

"Amelia," and my body shifted to the side by the tug of my skirt. Peering down my Father's youngest daughter, Adele, stood at my side with burgundy fabric peeking out from her clutch. My sight steadily returned. "Amelia, you should come dance! Come dance! Come on, please!"

I envied her childhood ignorance. I envied everything about her and maybe that's why I hated her. She had a doll like face - perfectly colored with pink lips, pure hazel eyes and a red blush. Her tight locks bounced and swayed as her head moved with her words. She should pray she doesn't lose that beauty as she ages.

"I don't know, Adele….I don't feel so well," I breathed.

"Perhaps a slow dance then," a familiar voice I couldn't put a face to offered. My fleeting stare met Lemieux's sly grin.

"No, thank you, Mr. Lemieux….Mayor Lemieux," I corrected as I recoiled two steps.

"Come now, I will show you how," pressed Henri while Adele giggled at our side. He grew closer to where his breath tickled my skin. "Or we could excuse ourselves to more private quarters."

I winced. "No….thank you, Mr...Mayor….I am not…."

Henri bent down to Adele, who was flushing red with her snickers. "Adele, my dear, why don't you start heading out to the patio before the firework show starts."

For once, I rued seeing that high - level smile and bouncy brown curls go. I hated to see the crowd follow behind, leaving me with a few stragglers and Lemieux, who was studying me while looking over the rim of his glasses. He wasn't married or maybe he was like Father, married but uncommitted. Maybe young women who crossed his path were a challenges that evolved into a prize.

"It is rather rude to reject a man such as myself," he warned.

"With all due respect sir," I said while still trying to register the situation, "I'm not seeking a suitor." My eyes were situated on the floor, but now looking up I realized him and I were the last two remaining souls. The music had drifted into the outside. Everyone had ushered to the patio, where they continued to drink and chatter about their successes.

"You're not beautiful, not like most women," he said, cooly. "You're plain and pretty….reasonably pretty. Older. If it wasn't for your name you would be in the workhouse. I've seen women like you. You think you, a little girl, can survive in a man's world, until the end where you're begging on the streets and selling your body. Don't be a fool, Amelia."

I drew in a long breath, but I couldn't collect myself. My body was numb and yet inside my heart was tearing through my rapping chest. A sting burned my eyes, that I hid by looking away. Through the doors, a variety of colors and lights wavered over us in shadows and trilling screeches of fireworks echoed in my ears. People unison oohs drifted into the room, breaking through the silence. But tension remained.

"I….I….came," I uttered as my voice broke. "I came here, because of my….my Father. And Adele."

"Your Father spoke differently."

"Of course he did….I'm sorry, but it's not like that. I'll be returning home in Massachusetts by the end of the season….he promised," I pressed because I was trying to convince myself. I wouldn't be surprised if this was Father's scheme to get rid of me - pawn me off to an aging mayor so he wouldn't have that shame around him anymore. I was just business.

"Your foolish to believe that. I know your Father and he is a horse's ass. Promises don't mean anything to him," Lemieux scoffed.

"Neither do I," and felt the warmth of a tear slide from my eye. I drew back and started towards the entrance, only for his words to bring me to a halt.

"Pitiful. You're twenty something year old, and can't even survive in a crowd of people. I recommend you follow my advice and take the only offer you'll ever have," he insisted with a consistent eerie grin and light accent lacing his words.

My steps fastened and I never peered back, for I half - expected for Henri to be trailing. I was met with the coolness of the outside and hauled pass the greeter before I dared look behind me. My former path was empty. Striding farther down barren streets, illuminated by street lamps, I tried to remember what happened but my mind remained in a haze. All I could recall was their comments. Their glares. And their unspoken words that said more than they truly did.

I let a tear slip from my eye as I pondered the cruelty of life.

My mother was gone. My father despised me enough to pawn me off to an alliance he spoke foul of. Fool, trash and vermin and yet he was fine giving me away to him. And now I was in a state of disarray, escorting myself back to a house that didn't feel like home, with tears flowing down my cheeks, in a town that dwell in constant fog. I didn't care that night what happened to me. I didn't care if I lived or I died alone like they all predicated I would.

Reaching the house, I noted the lights had dimmed and the gate was open. No guards patrolled the outside. Something wanted to restrain me from going inside, and a voice warned me. It wasn't right. Yet I went in without a care.

Darkness swallowed me within my first step and the door shut behind me. I shuffled towards the nearest surface, and yet I never reached it. I succumbed to darkness as an unseen force collided with my head, bring a surge of pain that quickly ease as my eyes begun to shut and the world escaped me.

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**Hello my beautiful readers!**

**Yah second chapter, we're progressing...incredibly slowly! We'll get there...maybe...we'll see anyways, I want to thank everyone who followed and favorited this. You guys have the patience of a saint and slightly low standards. Anyways I hope you guys enjoyed and review, follow or favorite if you like or do all three! Or don't I'm not your boss. Anyways thank you everyone, talk to you soon! **


	3. Chapter 3

May I was still alive and maybe I was dead.

Maybe I was imprisoned in Henri's attic, above his bedroom and he was just below me, drinking brandy with a self - satisfied smirk rising on his face.

From what I could recall - and that was very little because my forehead was splitting and nausea came and went in a timely pattern - he was the type. Those young, fervid eyes on a crimped face wavered in my mind. But there was benefit in my throbbing head. My scent was stronger and being tickled by the heavy, but crisp and earthly aroma of burning wood. There was a cool breeze, stimulating a tremble through me as it hit my legs half covered in marred stockings.

Beyond the darkness surrounding me was the outside. And when I found it, I stepped into even more uncertainty. Through the slit of the tent, several more were laid out on the outskirts of a lake's coast. Lanterns were strung among the site where in the heart of all a campfire prospered. There was movement in the far distant, but close to me only blades of grass swayed. Through the nothing a voice broke through and my eyes shifted over my shoulder.

"Ah, Amelia Cornwall?"

My vision had doubled and weakened since the infliction. But I could see this man clear by the shone of lanterns and moon light. His tall, trim legs stretched across a small table but swung around as he stood to make my acquaintance. The creases beneath his eyes inclined me to think he was middle age, but not a single grey was beneath his hat. Jet black locks were combed down behind his ears and neck. A short mustache and hair beneath his lip half framed his appealing, yet conniving grin.

"Forgive me, it was not my intentions for us to get you here under such hostile circumstances," he said as he roused from his chair and secured a lit cigar secure between his lips. "Dutch Van der Linde."

I could not register what was happening or where I was, yet my mind could still recall that day Father deceived me into coming to Saint Denis. Dutch Van der Linde, the man who robbed my father and sent a riffle through his perfect life. I admired the man in front of me for his subtle charm, but now I was appreciative. I wanted to morbidly thank him for all the havoc he had caused for my father. Yet apprehension and uncertainty, left me only uttering, "The….the man who robbed Father several times?"

He wore a boosting, self - satisfied smile while puffing out a cloud of smoke that faded in my direction. "Well, I suppose that was us."

"Wh….where am I?" I inquired, taking a stride forth.

I couldn't perceive the reason why I felt the need to ask, while I didn't actually care. I could be abandoned in a foreign country or a deserted land and it wouldn't matter. Small details of the night were breaking through my aching mind. Henri's eerie grin and creeping words consistently flickered in my head and worsened my newfound nausea. That party, those condescending people and the crowds of smoke and chortles they mingled in, it made being in front of an armed criminal endurable.

"Clemens Point, not far from Rhodes," he answered as his eyes swept across the campground, searching for something. Unable to find it, he started to advance through a maze of tents while I followed. "I'm sure you'll be back home soon, Miss Cornwall, just as soon as your father complete a certain business transaction for your freedom.'

Dutch's steps halted and I took the chance to reach his side and defuse the idea, but I was interrupted by the approach of a man. Older, maybe Father's age, but with softer features.

"Ah, Hosea," greeted Dutch. "How did you and Arthur get on?"

Hosea hesitated to speak. "Fine. We stirred up some trouble with the Sheriff Gray. That Braithwaite woman gave us some money and invited us back though."

"Good," Dutch effused, with one last puff before discarding his cigar.

"And I see you sent Bill and Micah to Saint Denis," murmured the older man as his eyes pierced through me.

"As I was just telling Miss Cornwall, as soon as our friend Leviticus comes through with the money, she is free to return home."

Hosea head steadily shook and his expression was the same as a disapproving father who just met the poor beggar his daughter's marrying. But he left unspoken and his friend didn't seem to heed the pessimism and that might have been because he was still searching for something.

"I'm sorry, sir," I begun, "but I'm not sure putting me up for ransom is really going to work. See my father….."

With half his attention on me and the other half elsewhere, his steps resumed. He strode us pass the campfire, where several men assembled around, sharing stories that stopped at the sight of me. They stared, why must everyone stare?

"Your father is a fool, Miss Cornwall, one of the many men that ruined what could have been a fine country," he said continuing with his steps.

"Oh and you're right about that! My Father is a crumpled face, overstuffed money bag. They all are." He moved quick, making me regret how inactive I had been in life. When he stopped I couldn't help but draw in a breath.

Dutch smiled. A broad smile. "If they only all saw it like that."

"It would be a much better world," I agreed. "The thing Mr….."

My insides rattled while my head throbbed. Another phase of nausea wavered and my thoughts were vandalized.

"Mr….Mr….Uh….Van...Mr. Van," I begun.

"Van der Linde," he re - introduced.

I nodded which only intensified the pain. What a mouthful. "Mr. Van der Linde, thing is, although my father wasn't regularly in my life….really a father at all, I know him somewhat well. Therefore I know if I was on fire and he had a glass of water, he would ask for a lemon to give it more taste. Cornwall or not, I'm not any use to you or your….interesting family you have here."

My words caught his attention and held it for a brief moment. He knew I was telling the truth and yet I continued to press.

"Please, Mr. Van der Linde. I - I - I love how you have humiliated my father and I would indeed love to see him humiliated again and lose profit and whine in his office like a schoolgirl, but I am no help to you with that," I asserted.

Dutch was silent in his ponder for a moment. When he opened his mouth to speak, I expect him to liberate me, shoo me off and scratch up a new plan for money. Then it closed and his eyes widened. He found what he was looking for.

"Miss Grimshaw!" he summoned and a woman emerged.

As she grew closer, the light illuminated over her, revealing crimps in her skin and a distinct scar on her cheek. Though old, she was lovely, with thick brown hair rolled into a tall bun, deep set eyes filled with passion and a stern, but nurturing approach. Age had not slowed her, or obedient made her quick.

"Miss Grimshaw, would you be so kind as to get Miss Cornwall a bed."

"Of course," she accepted and her hand embraced my elbow which I attempted to retrieve.

"No, wait, Mr. Van der Linde, you know I'm telling the truth," I said, realizing this was the most talking I had done in quite a while. My own voice was unfamiliar to me. "Why would you keep me? My father hates you….He's wasting money hiring men to track you down and kill you as you continued to steal from him. He won't give you a penny. If you let me…"

Dutch's chortle was much like the smirk he wore; untelling and deceptive. "And have you run back to the law and tell them where we are? Miss Grimshaw."

Her clutch tightened to his command and trawled me back through the camp. With each screaming word, she secured her grip farther. She disregarded my pleas and winces following the same inattentiveness Dutch had. He simply stared at me, until sauntering off. But the thought of him remained with me throughout the night.

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**Hello my beautiful readers!**

**Thank you all for the follows, favorite and the lovely review! You guys are so damn lovely and I appreciate all the support. So did you guys know you can make Arthur fat in the game? I was amazed! See I heard that if you never visit camp, someone will come to find you, so I attempted this. And I was gone for three weeks in the game and no one came (that hit really close to home) so I just constantly fed my Arthur at the saloon and let him sleep (also hits real close to home) and then boom! Obese Arthur! Crazy!**

**Anyways my sweet pookies, until next time! I hope you enjoyed the chapter or tried to, maybe after a few drinks. That's okay that's how I wrote it hehe! So follow, favorite, review, do whatever you want, just not drugs. Unless pressured!**


	4. Chapter 4

I couldn't perceive the abnormal thrill I felt upon getting kidnapped. I was indeed petrified, fumed and uncertain, but removed from high society and the daily routine of nothing was calming. Imaging Father's humiliation, fraud tears and imploring speeches to save his darling daughter and bring justice to the panic it has caused him, also had its morbid enjoyment. This would be the highlight of my life.

Five days in though, I glanced up with that thought heavy in mind and begun to question how poignant my life is to make this notorious. A dreaded routine was just as common as it was back home. I awoke, washed, took my place upon an abandoned log facing the water, handled the quick stares from the others and waited for nothing. On occasion Miss Grimshaw would approach with a bowl of stew and some coffee in hand.

Today, like all the days, she granted me the bowl without a word and was scurrying back to camp as soon as I peered up. She was diligent and uncensored and therefore didn't fake an ounce of compassion for me. I didn't mind, I didn't mind our exchanges being so brief either, for the simple reason she frightened me.

While I spooned down a few bites, I saw in the corner of my eye the camp's dog growing closer. That scent from the stew, though made me question taking another bite, had attracted him closer until he stood only a few feet from me. His eyes followed the bowl as I positioned it to my side and my hand begun to rap against the dried mud patch. My lips pursed as I produced a whistle that was more breath than sound.

His ears perked.

"Come on, boy," I whispered with the occasional peer over my shoulder. I didn't need anymore unwanted attention. I tapped the ground several more time, each with a little more strength than the last. "Come here, I promise I won't hurt you."

He shambled closer which made me battle an emerging smile.

Another whistle, more pursuing words and the offering of a piece of meat from the stew and there he sat with his head upon my knee. Each stroke he exchanged with a thump of the tail. It was uncanny to me, here I was abducted by criminals feuding with my distant father and yet being by the water and stroking a dog, I was content. And proud, proud to have caught someone's attention.

"Such a handsome dog," I cooed while my hand caressed behind his ear. "What are you doing here? Are you an outlaw as well? Did you help rob from my father? No….you're too much of a lover. Too kind and charming."

"That's my dog."

My eyes merely lifted to see a boy at my side. Five, maybe six, in short trousers and a cornflower blue undershirt. His hair was chocolate brown, similar to Adele's. I hadn't thought about her since that night. I missed her, oddly, or maybe the memory of her made me think of my scheduled chamber and that's what I missed.

"His name's Cain," he said with a high pitch tone. "Uncle Dutch named him that, because he was a wanderer."

I steadily nodded while giving Cain another fervid scratch.

"Are you another O'Driscoll?" he inquired.

My brow furrowed as my mind attempted to register the name. "I don't think I am."

"My pa hates them. No good O'Driscoll he calls them." The mentioning of father drained the light in his eyes and lowered the elation lacing his tone. "Pa doesn't really talk to me. Momma tells me not to care about those who don't care about me."

"I think that's good advice," I soothed with half my attention still on Cain. "My father wasn't there for me much either. But you have your Uncle Dutch and her and this loyal friend it seems."

"I have a lot of uncles!" he effused and the gleam gradually returned. "Uncle Arthur took me fishing at the last camp. It was fun. And Uncle Hosea is teaching me to read."

Hosea, I could remember him. Figuring out the name of the rest was like a puzzled. But Hosea was always nearby, usually seated at one of the tables in my view. I sometimes heard him mentioning about an affluent family, ruled by a demented matron, that caused riffles for the town of Rhodes. It interested me, the situation, but my position here left me no opportunity to pry.

"So which one is your father?" I asked as my eyes peered over my side, seeking someone I didn't even know.

The boy's stare followed mine. "Oh, I think he's gone actually. He and Uncle Arthur and Uncle Javier went this morning to do something. When we were in the snow, some wolves ended up hurting him. He's got a scar now on his face. Uncle Arthur mentions it a lot and he gets upset. I liked the snow. I liked our camp before that too. It was near Blackwater but we had to leave there in a hurry."

"Blackwater?" I repeated letting it sink into my mind before it went back to the boy's father.

The man with the scars. My recollection was vague of him, but his deformity and alluring appearance made him difficult to forget. There was a woman - young, slim and strains of black hair framed her flawless face - who was often hovering close to him. They must have shared a passion at one point or maybe just a night, something she held on too long while he dismissed it. I felt pity for her. It was nature, I suppose, trying to please someone, or simply gain their attention knowing we'll never have it. I had wasted my time playing that game with Father.

She was lovely though, that woman who followed him. But stern and reserved like the rest of them, because as soon as she noticed her son growing too close, she was rushing into speech towards us.

"That's my mamma!" he called once he noticed her fleet approach.

His enthusiastic waving wasn't share.

"Jack, come on, I told you to keep away from her," she scolded but in a motherly tone. Not angry, but guiding.

He left me with a nimble goodbye and for reasons I couldn't understand, my insides stung and a lump created in my throat. I could survive my remote childhood through books - something I didn't have here - and penning in my journal - another thing I wasn't provided. Now I only had gazing out at the lake, admiring birds that blinked by and unintentionally easing dropping on camp conversations. It was wearisome before I had even survived the first day.

"Who goes there?" queried an echoing voice, that made me tremble.

I knew the risks of wandering so far from camp and I knew how questionable it looked with me near the horses. But my encounter with Jack and Cain had left me giddy and illusively hopeful. When I saw the beautiful mares grazing, I couldn't resist. The heavier set man who often lingered by the food wagon and occupied by path had drifted off. So had the camp's scanty accountant, with his beady eyes who often had a nose in a book and sat outside his wagon. I took the chance without a regret until that voice boomed.

My hands shook as my eyes sprung to the direction of the noise. Meeting my gaze was a man upon a beige horse. But it was not the horse that occupied my attention. The man, something about him, he looked so ominous with his hat shading his face and so broad built and yet I wasn't frightened of him like I was the rest.

"It's Arthur," he called back. His voice had a gentle rasp to it.

The moment I surrendered my guard, consequences crept from behind.

"Bill, I thought you were watching her," Dutch scowled while approaching me.

Bill must have been the man trailing behind. His broad set and untamed facial hair was intimidating. But speaking, he was so defensive and daft. "Well how was I supposed to know that. She usually just sits there anyways."

Dutch waved him off, with attention still on me. "Miss Cornwall, please step away from the horses."

I withdrew from the horses and took a step towards him, while feeling the cool glares of my newfound audience. I didn't need to look up to know they were peering this way. To whatever fortunate I had - and I never had much - Dutch resumed chiding at Bill, leaving my apologies unheard and my action discarded.

I started to shuffle back with a head bowed in shame. My body was burning as the incident continued to build in my mind. I never saw Arthur advance in front of me until he turned around and caught my wandering eye.

"You know, Miss Grimshaw can always use an extra pair of hands," advised Arthur.

My mouth felt dry so I could only handle a nod.

Arthur didn't linger picking at conversation straws and while I felt an ache to see him go, I understood. I had nothing to offer. Yet the farther he advanced, the more the unperceived pain begun to stretch. Watching Jack leave was short term dismay. Him, I couldn't fathom it, I couldn't see him leave. He acknowledged me, he reminded me I existed and I wanted to return the favor. That timidness left me only blurting, "Miss Grimshaw actually terrifies me."

Peering back I spotted the lift in his lips, that lowered upon seeing my dull expression.

"Her barks a lot worse than her bite," he assured. His tone was softer than I remembered. "Ah, hell, come here."

I was rocking on my heels, registering all the possibilities of what he wanted, until time had passed and he was standing right in front of me. His hand was slinking into his satchel, wrestling through items before reaching the desired items. An oatcake and a brush, which he gave me despite my clear disarray. He gestured towards the beige mare, with a stretch of white between her eyes that continued to her nose.

"She's my girl," he said, gently.

"What about Mr. Van der Linde?" I inquired while still studying the brush.

"Don't worry about Dutch," he assured and shook his head. "Just good to see you coming around."

That was the first time I had smiled since coming here. A broad smile.

* * *

**Hello my lovely readers! I apologize for the delay in updating! Life's been crazy though with school, moving around, my cats (I have eight running around my house and I don't know where half of them came from) but I have finally returned. Yah! Okay no one's rejoicing. Anyways pickles I hope you found something in this chapter to enjoy or make fun of, either one works. So review, follow, favorite or not (it is my birthday today, so if you wanna give me a gift...Dear God this is how desperate I've become!) but you guys do whatever. As long as it's legal. Anyways guys, I love you all you sweet pickle! Until next time!**


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you doing?"

A fallen wisp of hair tickled my nose as I peered up. There, now blocking the piercing sunlight, Arthur stood with a stare resting on me. My cheeks flushed and burned, leaving me to force an uncomfortable laugh in attempt to ease myself. But the stammering and miswording persisted.

"Well, I….uh….you asked, I mean you told me about Miss Grimshaw needing chores done and I didn't want to ask her," I blabbered, each one word bring more and more pinching shame, "and I saw someone taking these bales to the horses so I thought…"

The heat inside me roused as I waited for him to speak. Until a minute had passed, I was facing him with nothing but a dull stare. Waiting, I was always waiting and never knowing what for. The silence prolonged and I finally resumed tugging the hay bales towards the horses.

"You know for a Cornwall, you sure don't act like one would," he observed.

I released the bale when the sting in my hands intensified. It felt like hundred of needles were puncturing my skin with endless squeezing.

"Oh?" I whispered.

Arthur gently drew me away and bent his knees to the level of the bale. His arms scooped underneath it, then with a low grunt, he emerged to his feet. "Not a bad thing. You're just quiet."

I trailed behind as he strode towards the mares.

"Well, like I said to Mr. Van der Linde, I'm not my father's favorite person," I admitted and that shame returned. "That's always been my brothers and my sisters….half brothers and sisters."

"Oh yeah," he said and dropped the bale in front of the beige steed he rode.

"I'm more of a reserved reader…." I whispered.

I didn't expect him to hear me, no less reply. "Well, if you're looking, Mary Beth and Lenny might lend you something."

After fervidly scratching his horse, and cooing words at her, he looked at me. It was a common habit of mine to look away, to avoid eye contact, because that's where judgement waited. My mother always told me if you wanted to know someone's true feelings, you stare deep within their eyes and you'll find them. Maybe the vast amount of disappointment and regret that were in Father's had made me apprehensive to look elsewhere. Yet Arthur's were too profound to ignore.

"I….uh…." I shook my head. "I don't really know who anyone is, save you and Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Van der Linde….oh and also Jack. Jack's mother, just not her name. And Cain. Then there's Mr. Hosea…."

"Seems you know more than you think," he said.

A bitter quiet divided us.

"Well, Mary Beth's the young girl sitting at the campsite. Brown hair. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you asked her."

He advanced for another bale, while I waited in ponder. Topics and replies flood my head, and then he came back and my mouth dried. I could imagine smooth conversations that made him laugh. His laughter was rare and oddly gentle. And these fabricated conversations would lead into the night, as the apprehension of talking would steadily fade. But reality broke through my daydreams to remind me it was in control.

"So what brought you to Saint Denis anyways?" he asked. "You don't seem like much of the traveler."

I swayed back and forth upon my heels. "My sis…..my father's daughter, her mother….his wife….."

"Sounds complicated."

"I suppose it is. Well, she was actually my governess for a brief period. Father was….sinful with her during his marriage to my mother and they married soon after. Then she had Adele a few months later. She's dying of the pox," I said with a morbid enjoyment. "Father didn't want Adele to be there when she passes, and he wants me to be….uh….someone else. He uh, thought the city muh - might make me more of a….lady."

"Well I may not know the city very well, but I don't think Saint Denis is a good place for that," he countered.

I giggled. "No, not from what I saw."

"And how much did you really see?" he asked.

The attention tickled. "To be honest with you, Mr. Arthur, not anything pass Father and Mayor Henri Lemieux's house. I was often on the patio, reading my book….it was a quite a good one actually and penning in my journal. I suppose he wanted us here because of his expanding business…." The thought of Lemieux made me wince, that Arthur looked back at.

"You ever been close with him?"

"Business was more of a priority than family."

Another moment of silence stood between us and unlike the last time, I found myself more curious than angered by it. Arthur looked hesitant, like a question rested upon his tongue and he was battling to withhold it. My pressing didn't help.

"What happened to your ma?" he finally inquired.

I'm not sure if he regretted asking because my eyes had shifted off to elsewhere while the thought of my mother filled my mind. She was a beautiful woman. All of Father's wives had to be beautiful to even be acknowledged by him. They were more trophies than companions. He loved the flaunting and the concealed envy of others. She deserved better.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry," I heard him say, breaking through my thoughts.

I waved him off with a feeble hand. "It's alright….I don't often talk about my family. Better that way."

Another round of silence and I finally pardoned myself with a low goodbye. I shuffled back to my log to gaze upon the water until night arrived. Time staggered while I sulked in boredom. I could only daydream and ponder for so long. Reaching an hour in, I regret walking away and then I didn't. Mary Beth, or who I assumed to be by Arthur's description, approached with books weighing her arms down. She was young and timid like myself, but beautiful. Her faint smile stretched across her freckled face, as she said with an enthusiastic accent, "Arthur mentioned you might want something to read. These are just a few of my favorites, but I have more."

I accepted with a cherry red shade building over my cheeks.

"Thank you," I murmured and realized I should have cleared my throat first. "Thank you so much."

"It's Arthur you should be thanking. He's the one who recommended it."

* * *

The rolling waves crashed against the coast and a cool breeze crept from under my tent, leaving me restless. I wasn't daring enough to attend the camps activities, where songs being sung echoed in my ears. Stories were told, but too low to hear and ended with thunderous laughter. Maybe if I was assured Arthur was among them, I would sit with them, I might even join a conversation, but I didn't know. Even if he was, I doubt he would acknowledge me around the others. I expected he conceded in me out of pity. I wasn't angry at the idea though.

Arthur.

He was a pleasant and haunting thought.

I shifted, encountering a half buried root piercing through my back. Laughter drifted with another round of crisp of air. This was going to be a prolonged night Or so I thought.

"O'Driscolls!"

My mind traveled back to the day I met Jack and he had spoke that name. No good O'Driscolls.

"What did you say?" Dutch inquired.

Shoots drowned out his voice that shattered the air. A feminine shriek followed and soon after that the voice of Dutch and Hosea directing the others. I had just emerged from my tent, pierced by the sound of bullets swooshing pass me, when I caught Hosea's stare. He called to me, but surrounding fervid screams left his words unheard. Another swoosh, another shot and I was cowering to the ground. I crawled like a wounded animal across the dirt ground until reaching a deserted crate that someone else occupied. While darkness concealed her face, her gentle cry reminded me of this morning.

"Mary Beth," I whispered.

She peered up, only to stumble down against me. "Kieran."

I glanced pass the crate. A few feet ahead of us an outline of a man lolled on the ground.

"We can't leave him there," she wailed.

I inhaled an uneven breath.

The air was whirling, the ground rattling and wood splinters were shattering as bullets grew closer to our newfound shelter. Fear made my body lock in its original position and entice in relentless cower. Looking at Mary Beth though, I felt guilt. She gave me a chance to escape the everlasting boredom. She was the one of the few who broke through their reserved state and acknowledged my presences. I was indebted with her.

"If we suh - stay….low," I stammered, before Mary Beth's attention returned to me. "Stay low and we drag back here, alright?"

She was catatonic.

"Mary Beth," I said with a rise in my tone and a fleet shake. "Mary Beth….we can do this. We need to do this."

After a moment of hesitation that felt prolonged by my own apprehension, she nodded. By my directions, we roused and emerged into the fire and the dense scent of smoke and gunpowder. Our steps, as well as our actions, were hasty. Soon Kieran's unconscious body was being scooped up in our welcoming arms and heaved back to our previous spot. While the moment was quick, weakening my senses, my eyes caught the double barrel rifle just beyond his grasp.

"Is he breathing?" she queried. Her hands pressured at his wound; a gaping circle on his right shoulder, with crimson liquid oozing out and saturating his clothes.

His rutted breath blew against my hand.

"Yes, he is," I replied between pants. "If we can get the bullet out of him…"

Her wounded stare encountered mine.

"Stay with him, please." Despite the bullets raining sideways on us, I still could remember who I was and why I was here. Within a quick moment I was given, I considered the shotgun and its wavering glint, lolling as bullets flew overhead. Its existence was mocking me.

I attended a boarding school in the overstuffed world of New York, per Father's demand. A quarter through the semester I considered following the same course of action my mother had. I just wanted to end the protract lectures, affluent girls who flaunt their parents' wealth with diamonds and French style dresses, and finally pardoned myself from the studies. Returning home, the first thing Father told me was, 'only cowards run'.

Retrieving that shotgun and rushing towards the action, his words faded. I was no coward. I wasn't an accurate shot either. It had been several years since my brother's last haunting trip, that my mother implored they take me with. My aim was not so faulty each round missed. I damaged one with a bullet through the leg and another starting to retreat after grazing, which his companions soon followed.

Then there was silence, an uncertain silence, that lingered even as the others begun to expel the dead O'Driscolls bodies. Clouds of gunpowder begun to clear, exposing several gang members. Arthur stood a few feet away, confiding in Dutch as he collected himself. Miss Grimshaw, along with the other woman and one of the older men were circling Mary Beth and Kieran.

A foreign, abnormal confidence was building inside of me, forcing me to advance towards Arthur. It was deceptive, because upon reaching him, a woman came into view by his side. I had seen her on a few occasions, patrolling around camp. She was reserved, beautiful and out of place like myself and yet there she stood in a crowd commending her.

"I told you can handle herself," Arthur boosted.

Dutch lit a cigar. "Indeed you did. Thank you, Mrs. Adler, for all your help.."

Their conversation draggled on and even longer after I disregarded the shotgun. I shuffled back to my tent, with my body on fire and my blood boiling. I was not the envious type. I knew I was pathetic, pitiful, clumsy and would perish, sulking in loneliness. Father reminded me often, before resuming his praise with the other children. If I allowed jealousy into my life, it would be far more corrupt than it always was. Yet Arthur, damn yokel Arthur, from him a quenching desire was created. The sight of him, praising Mrs. Adler, made my body tremble throughout the night. The look he gave her was haunting.

When there was moments spared of jealousy, regret substituted.

I should have ran. I should have took the chance to abandon this place and face the jeopardy of the forest. The first time I decided against being a coward.

* * *

**My beautiful readers I have returned! **

**This reminds me of the time my mom lost me at the store and when I found her she looked at me and said, "i didn't even know you were gone!" Hehehe...oh my, my dark childhood. Anyways pickles, I'm sorry for the delaying in updating, but in my defense I had no internet, something about going over data because my friend made me a joint account on Hulu and I found a ton of shows I hadn't seen in years! Crazy! Here I am though, with another chapter of mediocre. Thank you for all the lovely reviews, the new followers, favorites and the previous ones. You guys with your low standards! Please review, follow or favorite if you like, or don't, I understand. Until next time pickles!**


	6. Chapter 6

The days were easier after that night.

Arthur had faded off into his own adventures and that was more relief that I thought it would be. The less I saw him, the less he occupied my mind. I could read again because of Mary Beth's charity. She was young, her face made that obvious, and so did her reading choice. Most were corny romances, about criminals swooning a sheriff's daughter. She prompt me to ask Dutch and Lenny for some more reading material. My timidness declined.

After the second book, I started to outweigh the risks.

"You never even speak to me anymore!"

I hadn't notice Dutch also viewing the water, until Molly's voice caught my attention.

She came at him, rushing into speech where he only cast a glare over his shoulder.

"What is it now?" he inquired, losing that common, smooth voice of his. I had never seen him aggravated before and that was far more interesting than another tale of a damsel in distress saved by criminal. I didn't mean to pry, but it was something I couldn't resist from watching despite the guilt that came with it.

"What is it going to take for you to notice me, hmm?" she shouted. "I've given you everything, haven't I?"

"I really don't have the time for this, Miss O'Shea," he murmured.

"Molly! It's Molly you goddamn bastard." Fire red curls whipped her face as she spun around and tread towards camp.

Dutch looked back to the water with a vacant expression.

"Ah, as if we didn't have enough problems," that familiar voice said behind me.

Arthur took to my right and lifted the book from my lap. "Mary Beth's?"

"Yup," I whispered with my eyes still on Dutch. My body tensed. "How long have they been married?"

His laughter was low and heavy. The longer it went on, the more confused I found myself.

"Wh - what?" I whispered.

The thought of him laughing at me made my cheeks scorch.

"They're not married," he corrected. "Dutch just has a way about him and Molly can't see it."

"Oh," I mouthed. "Molly is pretty."

Arthur nodded. "That she is. She doesn't fit well with the other women though. Kind of like you she came from a wealthy family. But she left that life after meeting Dutch."

I pitied Molly after he told me that. She intimidated me, therefore I had no plans on approaching her, but if I was not caged by fear I no doubt would have attempted to talk with. We were similar - self - entitled, out of place, overlooked and drawn to a man who wouldn't notice if we sauntered off for a week.

"So….why do they sleep together, if they're not married?" I asked.

Again he laughed, and again my confusion and humiliation prospered. "We kill. Kidnap. Rob. And it's marriage you wonder about?"

"I mean….I suppose you're right. But that man, John, and Abigail, they're married?"

"Depends on who you ask, really. It's complicated. John's a fool but Abigail doesn't see that, which makes her even more of a fool than him."

"I see."

A tense silence interrupted our conversation. I couldn't decide within that time if I appreciated it or not. I was attracted to Arthur even as I tried to rebuttal those feelings. Talking to him made my body ache, my throat dry and when he left, my eyes stung and my insides descended. Yet there was always adoration when he was near and an agonizing need for him to acknowledge me. He made me more abnormal than I already was.

Dutch strode closer. He did not hesitate to break through the welcomed, dreaded silence.

"Arthur, how did you and Sean get on?" he greeted like I didn't even exist.

"Just fine," sighed Arthur.

I waited for Dutch to pardon me, explaining they need to speak in private. He never did. He balanced his stare between Arthur and I as their conversation proceeded.

"I don't know about all this though, Dutch. Putting ourselves in the middle of those two families and their feud is a dangerous game," Arthur warned.

"When isn't it?" he retorted, while producing a cigarette pack from his coat pocket. He offered one to Arthur and then to me.

My trembling hand accepted, with a mumbled 'thank you'.

"And how are you doing, Miss Cornwall?" he asked while striking a match at the bottom of his boot.

I peered to Arthur, with narrow eyes and then back to him. "I'm….I'm alright, Mr. Van der Linde. Thank you. And yourself?"

"Surviving, my dear, surviving."

"I can say the same thing," I teased and watched the match collide with the end of my cigarette. A habit my father deemed unladylike, therefore I decided I would pursue it before my death. I was too addicted to the taste of bitter contentment to stop now.

While I drew in a breath, allowing the smoke to fill my mouth and steep down my throat, in the corner of my eyes Arthur's expression twisted. Yet I was more drawn to Dutch's sly grin. It was alluring. He as a man was alluring in general. He defined perfection with his charismatic, well trimmed figure and always clothed in prim and proper attire save the environment. And that smile was comforting, enough to make all the problems in the world subside. I understood why he was a leader. He would have made a renowned politician or businessman had he not disdained them.

"You'll be back home soon," Arthur reassured, in a dissimilar tone. "Right, Dutch?"

"Of course! Why, of course, as soon as our dear friend Mr. Cornwall comes through with the money," he said like we were a gathering of friends playing poker. "I hope you can understand, Miss Cornwall."

I nodded while letting a laugh slip. "Truth be told, I've always wanted Father to be knocked down a bit. I can only imagine that humiliation he's dealing with. And the money he'll have to sacrifice to get me back."

Dutch's chortle joined in with mine. Arthur was still quiet.

"And then it to Tahiti for us," effused Dutch.

"Anywhere but here seems better," Arthur admitted.

Tahiti. If I was imagining the map framed in Father's study correctly, it was west of Peru, isolated by ocean water. There lied true freedom. Lawless land. An open world. While they're relaxing on coastal beaches and spending nights under those odd structured trees, I would be back to my prison cell. Back to the loneliness that was only fulfilled by the daydreams of something more.

"I never thanked you, Miss Cornwall, for helping us fight off the O'Driscoll. Mary Beth told me all about what you did," Dutch exulted. "She was greatly impressed."

"Uh….well, thanks isn't necessary, I didn't do much," I humbly admitted. "It's been years since I've shot a gun. Will that man who got hurt be alright?"

He nodded. "He'll survive."

"Good," I whispered.

Kieran, I think, that was his name.

Dutch's eye shifted towards camp. Micah approaching made me shift. He was an uneasy presences, that was always creeping where it shouldn't be. He was uncensored, unhygienic and a bottled chaos waiting to burst.

"Blessed are the peacemaker, for they shall be called -" he greeted.

Arthur stood upon his words and drew closer. "What do you want, Micah?"

"...well, however, it goes," continued Micah.

"I'm not sure that line of thought serve your or me very well," Arthur countered.

"That's because, cowpoke, you're a man of profoundly limited intelligence." Neither, Micah's, nor Arthur's expression faltered.

Arthur accepted the insult without an ounce of umbrage and only the reply, "No doubt."

Dutch hushed both of them and inquired Micah once again.

"While you boys been running, digging us deeper into shit, old Mr. Pearson may have gone and lighten the load a little bit," answered Micah, with a light lift in his lips. He ushered both men closer to heavy - set cook, with a failing comb - over. "Pearson!"

"What on earth are you talking about?" asked Dutch in an escalating tone.

I could hear their words as they drifted with the breeze. I could not register all, but collecting the pieces and arranging them I realized the O'Driscolls had offered a parley. Hosea assured them what they all knew; it was a trap. And still the three of them, Arthur, Dutch, and Micah, sauntered off to the horses and rode off into uncertainty.

* * *

Miss Grimshaw had abandoned her daily habit of serving me a bowl of soup. I did not miss the company, what little she provided, yet my stomach missed the fulfillment. I dared to get my own bowl for the first time in a week. Strolling through camp, I kept my head bowed and a mind allocated on the task, while never reaching it.

Mary Beth, who was seated beneath a canopy attached to a wagon's side, halted my steps. She was not alone, but accompanied by two other women I had seen several times before.

"Amelia." She waved me closer. "Would you like to sit with us?"

My cheeks scorched as my lips stretched across them. "Uh, yes."

I positioned myself next to her and across a broad - built blonde. Karen, I believe. And Tilly was to Mary Beth's other side. They both were appealing, beautiful and like the rest of the camp, reserved. They peered up towards me, then returned half of their attention onto their work. We sat together, unspoken, and concealing our discomfort. Only Mary Beth was daring to break through it.

"What's it like being rich?" she inquired.

I twitched. "Well, it's not what it's all cracked up to be."

Karen scoffed.

My eyes drifted back to Mary Beth, who shot me a wounded stare. "I suppose nothing ever is."

"Yeah, I think, it was just...dull." I drew in a breath as the memories of childhood came to ravage the moment farther. "And it was an everyday rehearsal….Of course, there were trips. New York. Chicago. California. Privileged experiences. But I always had to be a certain way, dress a certain way and be the portrait of society. The three of you though, you go against all of that. You go on adventures. You be who you want to…."

Tilly's attention was full on me now. Her smile was vague, yet what I detected was comforting.

"You've been to Chicago?" she asked, with her head inching outwards.

"Twice. Once was sadly to attend a mayor's funeral," I articulated.

"It is true there are buildings taller than mountains there?" quavered Mary Beth.

I nodded. "I've never been in any, although our hotel was two hundred feet I believe. Our room was so high we needed to go in an elevator."

"An elevator?" Tilly squeaked.

Karen shook her head and released a heavy sigh. "They're a death trap. You get put in a little box that's held by a rope, and lifts you up!"

In the corner of my eye I saw Mary Beth's expression twist from curiosity to perturbed. "I remember reading about an accident in one. Nobody is very accepting of them. Were you scared?"

I paused as I mentally disputed whether or not to be honest. Of course there was a race in my heart and quivering hands that day. My mother stood to my side, after we steered off from Father and his party of other wealthy dolts, as we waited outside the elevators entrance. As the attendant ajared the door, ushered us in, my mother nodded towards me. It was a quick assurance that lasted throughout the ride. I wasn't scared then.

"Of course!" I lied. All I wanted was their approval. "It was….terrifying."

"Remember when Hosea told us about being in Illinois," Tilly reminisced with Mary Beth.

"Yes, how they acquired John while there." Karen's finger wavered with a threaded needle between them. "He was going to hang."

"I remember when I joined. Momma had died from typhoid. The boys took me in and treated me like family," Mary Beth said in a low tone.

I readjusted myself. "I'm sorry…..about your mother. Mine sadly died as well."

Mary Beth shot me a sympathetic look that held onto for a brief moment. I selfishly envious of her despite how kind she had been. She was beautiful, young, likable and the opposite of me. All of them were. And while they inquired about my life with gleaming eyes, I felt bitter at their freedom. Their adventures. They continued on reminiscing, as I faded out of conversation and begun looking for a reason to pardon myself.

Then Dutch returned, accompanied with Micah.

It was them who excused themselves first and assembled towards the men. Rumor about the meeting O'Driscoll hadn't remained private. I remained where I sat as Dutch trekked through the crowd. He took his position just outside his tent and viewed over his audience. I didn't pay much heed as I searched for something that wasn't there.

Arthur.

I sprung to my feet with eyes sweeping over camp, only to be met with a few familiar and unknown faces. None that belonged to him. There is something about curiosity that makes fear less powerful.

Dutch didn't seem as intimidating, none of them did, with my mind occupied by Arthur's absences. His voice echoed over camp, proclaiming this rivaled O'Driscoll a feeble man and a liar. Most members shook their heads while still agreeing. I shifted onto the tips of my toes and rapped my fingers against Dutch's shoulder. He rotated towards me with a face in contorted in a fleet fury. He took umbrage on being interrupted by anyone and more from a person like myself.

"I'm….I'm suh - sorry, Mr. Van der Linde," I whispered. "But where is Arthur?"

* * *

**Guys, I've returned! Sorry for the delay but life has been crazy. I quit my job, season 2 of Cobra Kai came out, so did Avengers Endgame, I was part of a human sacrifice, then I was abducted by aliens, so I crazy I tell ya. But here I am with another mediocre chapter. I just want to thank you all for the amazing support so many have given this story. Each follower, favorite, review and just reads in general gives it so much more meaning. Thank you! Alright til next time, remember guys, when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout!**


	7. Chapter 7

When Arthur returned a week later, in the dead of night, I saw only a glimpse of him being escorted to his bed. The days prior to it I had occupied with deciding on whether or not the growing void inside me came from missing him. Yet I knew when I saw him stripped of his daily attire and gasping for breath. I darted towards him while Dutch , Mary Beth, Miss Grimshaw and Pearson were already drawing him to his feet.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan." Pearson's sympathetic words drifted with the low breeze.

"It is a bit late for apologies," chided Dutch and called for Swanson. He was one of the many I hadn't met personally. From what I could observe and there was very little because Swanson was often wandering or sleeping, he was a reverend prior to joining. A kind man who succumbed to an illness I couldn't connect.

He moved quickly to aid Arthur to his feet.

I watched oblivious, like the public mass at an execution, as they escorted him to his bed. I lingered in a distance where I could see what was happening, but the words went amiss. Miss Grimshaw took a chair to his side and while a part of me was intimidated by her, just as equally as I pitied her, I wanted to be her in that moment. I wanted to hold his hand, assure him it would be alright so I could assure myself and be there for him as he awoke from night terrors. That wasn't me, though. I was on the outskirts the rest of the night and the night after.

By the third one, I saw a chance I took.

Arthur had awoken several times within the time period, occasionally coughing or wheezing, rarely a wince and Miss Grimshaw would sooth him back to sleep. She never moved unless it was to retrieve a glass of water or stew, never for herself. By the third night, Dutch finally pardoned her of her duties with a quick argument. She left with an unexpected obedience, before falling quickly into sleep like the rest of the camp. I stayed up staggered by my own sudden impulse to visit him. I wanted to see him. I wanted to know if he was alive and yet, the constant menacing aura I often found myself in kept me still.

When I picked my way towards him, I didn't realize the choice I had made until collapsing into the chair by his bedside. He rested in sheets saturated by sweat. A layer glistened on his chest by the lantern's light. His face had sunk and whitened.

"It was...different, with you gone. I was always waiting for you to come back. They said you might just be venturing around, because that's who you are, until they realized...I prayed for you to come back. Selfishly, for myself." I drew in a short breath and slipped my hand into his feeble grasp. My other one rest upon his heart, while timing the rise and fall of his chest. "You see, I've never really...belonged. I'm cursed in a way. Never….being able to really talk. Even being noticed. Affluent father or not...that money could give me everything but, but happiness. A friend."

I shifted and the chair cried. "When O'driscolls invaded, I had a chance to run. Maybe any sensible person would have taken it, but we both know I'm not the most sensible. I….I stayed... You were the first person to ever really acknowledge me. Before all of this, I spent most days hidden in my bedroom, reading stories about places I could never go and about people I would never be. My father hated me…..well probably still does. And my mother, she left me in a world that didn't want me. All my life, I've just been waiting for the end...and then I met you.

"Sure, Mary Beth is nice to me. Dutch….kind of. But out of all of them, you were the only one who reminded me I existed. You were my….my friend. So I stayed. And I hate to ask, but could you please stay with me now? Because I need my friend."

My eyes swept over my shoulder to guarantee we were still alone. Though I hesitated, finally I stood from the chair and let my hand slip out from his. I felt his heartbeat once more. Then I leaned in, tickled by his ragged breath, and puckered my lips against his forehead. My forlorn words I spoke stung my eyes.

"I love you, Arthur."

I drew in another breath before turning around. Dutch lurked behind. I exchanged a wounded stare that obscured my forced smile. As I brushed pass, he murmured a good night, one that I could only reply with a nod.

* * *

"Entering into May, well - known magnate and business typhoon Leviticus Cornwall 's daughter, and future wife of Mayor Henri Lemieux….." My eyes recoiled from the newspaper article and onto Arthur who remained still in bed, recovering from his prior plight. Enough strength had returned to him to sit upwards. His face had lightened from the statement, or my expression, I couldn't tell. "I...I didn't know I was getting married ...?"

"I don't know, Amelia, when has the newspaper ever lie?" he retorted.

My eyes constricted and my brow twisted, before returning to the newspaper. "...has gone missing. Ms. Amelia Cornwall was last seen in a state of disarray, leaving Mayor Lemieux's residency on Flavian street after attending a private party in honor of the mayor's proposal."

I glanced back to Amelia. "I don't remember any of this."

With a faint smile he gestured for me to continue.

"She excused herself after the beautiful moment - shared only between, Mayor Lemieux, Ms. Cornwall and his personal assistant - appearing incredibly animated upon leaving." I released a heavy sigh. "Returning home, Mr. Cornwall's youngest daughter, Adele and her nursemaid came to find the door open and the lights off. Ms. Cornwall was nowhere to be found. The search continues on as we reach June and Mr. Cornwall has raised a reward of a hundred dollars, to two hundred fifty…."

"Really?" Arthur inquired. "A millionaire and he gives a reward of one hundred dollars? My bounty's more than that."

"Well, this is just insulting," I teased, even though I was indeed miffed and a part of me stung inside. Yet I wasn't surprised. "For Mayor Lemieux, he implores the citizens of Saint Denis and the surrounding area to contact the law should they know anything. Ms. Cornwall is blonde, green eyed and medium built with light freckles and a birthmark beneath her right nostril and speaks with a lisp. As Mr. Cornwall's businesses continue to expand throughout the country, could some newfound enemies be the reason for her disappearance? In brighter news, Cornwall Kerosene and other items have gone on sale at the provided stores…."

I discarded the newspaper into Arthur's welcoming arms while I crossed my own. "He's profiting off of me."

He crackled before meeting my glare. "Uh, I'm sorry, Amelia."

I drew in a breath to make my lie more convincing. "It's...alright. It's who he is and always will be."

"I'm starting to understand why you're not impatient on getting back."

"You may not want to understand it all."

We continued with short lived conversations, drabbing into a brief history of my timid childhood, the plight events of his and how we found ourselves here. There was no sly affection invested in his words as he told about his younger days. Not until the mentioning of Dutch and Hosea did he show interest. He spoke more gaily about them then his own father, who died when he was the same age as when my mother did the same. The topic concluded itself from his restraint and my fear of pressing.

He told me about Colm O'Driscoll, a long term rival of Dutch who were tangled in a game of physical chess with him. Colm moved. Dutch moved. Whenever they saw a weakness in the other, they took advantage. Ironically, they had too many similar qualities to make me think of them as different people. When the topic could no longer be beat, my inquiries fell towards the families that were often hoovering on everyone's head in camp.

"So, who are they?" I caught Arthur's stare as it fled from the newspaper. "The Grays and the…..Braith...Braith..."

"The Braithwaites," he recommended. "Uh, they're two families trapped in a hundred year old feud against each other. Grays got the whole town of Rhodes that despise the Braithwaite. And on top of all that both got money."

Curiosity drew me closer.

"Well we've been playing both sides, by Dutch's request," he continued. "Seems I've become a deputy of Rhodes along with Dutch and Bill."

"Deputy?" I giggled. "You got a badge to prove that?"

Arthur gestured towards the duster coat folded across the chest near his desk. My fingers manicured to the front fold, where a silver engraved badge pinned in the fabric. To serve and protect. Between those words and Arthur, sitting up in his bed, my stare balanced. I envied his adventures and his cons, and still I pressed for his stories.

"Then we got the head of Braithwaite, this old hag, whose paying us to burn the Grays' fields. Did that. Got the whole town drunk for her, only to steal her prized horses after that," he recalled with a distressed expression overtaking him.

My smiled widened, something he was quick to inquire.

"Well...it's just, you're a horrible deputy," I chortled. "Not the worst though. That title belongs to the whole Saint Denis law."

"How so?"

"Micah's….not the brightest. And Bill certainty isn't."

"No argument there."

"And still both of them kidnapped me from one of the well - heeled streets of Saint Denis with little interruption. Not to mention it's been a month since my oh so tragic disappearance and not even a lead from them."

"I'm sure your father knows," he countered.

I nodded.

He did, and that was something I never doubted. He must have always known and still I was here among outlaws. It was better than surviving with him, or being pawned off to Henri when I was not pondering what was taking him so long to fulfill the ransom. Maybe it was just a business strategy - the more they pitied him, the more they bought. I wonder how long that scheme would last until it dried out.

I peered back to Arthur who kept half of his attention on the newspaper.

"Do you think I could...uh….go with you?" My head bowed before I caught his stare. "I know you still need to recover, but when...you're ready. We don't have to have a shootout, but the stealing, the burning, the adrenaline, it would just be...fun."

Arthur hesitated upon shaking his head. "I've seen a lot of people die because of that kind of fun, Amelia. It's an easy lifestyle to get into, and a hard one to get out of. Even harder to survive."

His words fumed me.

It was not so much his rejection that made me nibble at my lip and draw forth a drop of blood that taste of copper. It was not his lack of belief in me making my hands clench. It was simply his ignorance.

"I've already lived that life," I whispered.

"This is different," he denied.

I shook my head. His consistent refusal humiliated me. "You've seen the newspaper. There's no ransom in the near future, so I'm going to be with all of you for a quite a while...unless you decide to kill me. But I don't see that happening either. I'm no different than half the people here - I didn't belong. I've lost. And I want to prove myself."

Arthur paused.

"You'll need to learn how to shoot first."

"I know how to shoot!"

"I saw you just grazing those O'Driscolls. If you want to go out, you need to learn how to actually hit something."

* * *

**Hello my lovely readers, I have finally returned after taking a vacation to find myself. No, I was actually drinking and having writer's block, but now I have returned! Yah! Anyways my sweet pickles, thank you for all the past reviews, followers, favorites, hate mail, I love it all! I hope you guys didn't mind this chapter too much and didn't read it the way I wrote it...I was drunk. Actually, maybe you'll enjoy it better...Anywho, read, review, follow, favorite, only do drugs unless pressured and remember, when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and should! Until next time!**


	8. Chapter 8

Thirteen seasons ago, October came to ease the long wait for quail season. It loomed over the head every equipped man in addition to me. While the temperatures descended and a cast of grey invited itself over the world, sapping the energy from its people as well, I was not subdued. My mother implored, so finally, broken by the persistent begging - no doubt he had enough of that with underpaid workers - Father permitted me to join my brothers' yearly hunt. Hearing my admission they rallied until the day came and succumbed. Now I wish my mother had yielded. I wasn't my father and brothers hadn't. I allowed, or more so tried, to let memories of childhood die. Most were bleak, insipid and that made it easy. That day wasn't.

Drawing towards the day, my mother had apprehended me with tall tales of child who became unsolved mysterious upon wandering from their guide. The morning of she equipped me with another story and a Litchfield repeater, with mesquite stock and a steel frame. My fingers traced the wide grains as she told me the story. She always did have an uncaged imagination, one so quirky it caused Father to often glare. She should have been branded a pariah in our society. One might even consider unfit for it. Yet she managed herself, well enough it allured people and overshadowed her contracting ways. I admired her then.

"Are you sure you want to go out there, dear?" she asked me one last time as I struggled to handle the weight of my weapon.

I nodded while bouncing upon the heels of my feet. "I'm ready! Really, Mama, I am. Did you know I've been practicing at Papa's range and well ...he said he was going to watch, but he's busy. Honest he was because that's what he told me! See I told him that when Lindsey and Junior and Malcolm and Francis and I go hunting I'm going to kill the fattest bird. And they're all be gasping ...I think that's the right word. And they'll tell Papa and he'll take me and he won't get busy than."

Mama knelt towards me with a wounded smile and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. "Please one person at a time, Amelia. Now be off with you. Stay close to your brothers!"

Junior guided us down a frost kissed path that narrowed further inwards. Lindsey followed, with Francis and Malcolm trekking behind. The wind made talk difficult and still between puffs they tried. My mind occupied with admiring the land as I took the rear. Their few words went amid as I thought of the one - hundred seventy - six acres of land bordering the manor. Father had houses sprinkled across the region, but claimed this one home due to the range of game. A mahogany forest flourished at the south side, concealing the manor from wandering eyes. Farther north, just pass the house, trees spread out from one another creating larger glades. A shallow pond settled there. It wasn't deep enough for a swim, but satisfied us with fishing and cooling our feet on hazy days.

"What did Constance tell pa, Junior?" Lindsey inquired, after claiming the lives of two wandering hares. "What did you all hear?"

Junior's pace fastened as we reached the end of the frost. "She wanted Amelia to come along. He didn't tell me much, but then again, I didn't think to ask."

"How come?" he pressed.

"He was too busy getting stiff for the new maid," sneered Francis, which caused a shared chuckle between him and Malcolm. "Like father, like son."

Junior stopped.

"I've seen her brother. I'd be careful, something like that gets you the gentlemen's drip," Malcolm added.

"Shut up," Lindsey scowled and gestured towards me. "Not in front of Amelia."

Francis waved him off. "She'll figure it out eventually, sooner now than later. I'm sure her ma know all too well about that issue."

"What do you mean?" I asked with a gleam in my eyes. Childhood innocence is a bitter sweet thing.

"Ignore them, Amelia. They're talking foul," assured Lindsey.

"Spending too much time with Constance, I suppose," defended Malcolm.

Junior, who had kept silent, broke through the conversation by firing his trigger. Beady black eyes watched us from a short distant, cowering behind overgrowth and descended tree trunks. She was beautiful even if she was only a speck in my eyes. She was a full - grown doe, though her structure was visible under her beige fur. The death surrounding her wouldn't avail for her one proper meal. Perhaps famine had made her feeble, so she saw no point in bolting at the sight of us. Like the world not sparing her from struggle and cruelty, Junior didn't spare her from death.

Her white tail twitched a final time as the bullet tore through her chest. A stain of red saturated her fur and the darker it became the more she bled. A bed of decaying leaves welcomed her body as it joined them. Overgrown ivy tangled her hooves upon collapsing, restraining her from any possible freedom.

My brothers rallied behind with mirth echoing through the woods. Junior, pleased by his prize, bounced towards her with his knife in hand. I watched, not by my own want, but by an unseen force that wouldn't let me peer away.

"Ah, that's nothing!" Francis declared, the closer he came. "It's just a doe. Not a lot of meat on her either. Even Amelia could have killed that. When Pa took me hunting once, I helped kill a grizzly. Mean and old too."

"You did not," testified Malcolm. "I was there and you went running back to the cabin with a stain forging in your pants."

Lindsey hushed them and pointed a finger to a shamble drawing towards us.

"It's her fawn," Junior reported. He recoiled from skinning at the sight of her young. While still dazed, he ushered me closer and jabbed the gun into my hands, which pushed into my stomach. The sudden pain from the strike awoke me. "Shot it."

I peered towards Lindsey who assured me with a nod.

"Why?" I breathed.

The fawn crept closer. Her spots had yet to fade despite the season. They were stretched across her, blending into her greyish tint fur.

"Will you just shoot the damn thing," Francis huffed. "I'm betting a good amount I'll get more quail than any of you."

"It will die without it's mother," murmured Junior and hauled me closer to her.

"I….I don't, I can't…." I whispered. I couldn't feel the tears falling from my face for the chill had numbed my cheeks. "Can't we let her live at least? Please?"

"How do you expect to hunt with us if you can't kill a weak fawn?"

"When we….we get to the birds, I'll do it. I promise. Just, just let her go...she lost her mama….She could maybe survive."

"Kill it or go home!" he said with a sullenness in his tone. He always intended things his way. While often managing a pleasing tranquility, disobedience or rejection unearthed his hostility. He truly was Father's son. He thrust the repeater harder now as his withering patients replaced with anger. And again, it jabbed my lower stomach.

Then he stopped.

They all stopped.

The fawn tumbled off, yet I can't recall that. I only remember the warm, but demeaning shame sprinting down my leg. Time ran on in silence. The more warmth I felt, the more my dress clung to me. Seeping through the fabric of my stockings, the shame invited an itch over my legs. Within whiffs of air the scent was light, but caught in my nostrils. A few droplets pattered below me.

And then they laughed. Wholly, dreadful chortles were engulping me as the discomfort worsened. Francis shed tears, not for the reasons I did, but for his side felt like it was splitting into two. His laughter continued as he clutched it. Lindsey's amusement suppressed his own restraint and pity for me. I returned home in the same hour Father had, but hours before my brothers. I'd hope the incident would go hushed as I stepped into a desolate entrance. I'd hope their kills and stumbles would keep my brothers immersed from remembering what had happened, enough they wouldn't speak of it to Father. I would bury the soiled dress, the stocking and the mortification they represented. Ambling towards the washroom, my plan withered. There he stood, his face creased like his apparel. Darkness settled over his face before it reached mine.

Anger made him unable to speak. Humiliation stopped him from summoning a maid to wash me. I so missed baths in that moment as the itch returned and the aroma crawled around me.

"Amelia…." he finally breathed with an eerie composure. "Why, Amelia….Why do you have to be like this?"

"Damn fawn," I breathed and pulled the trigger. The agonizing memory returned me to the present. Ahead of me stood two unoccupied barrels where a variety of bottles lolled upon. Arthur, who now stood behind in an active quarrel with Bill, had positioned them for me.

I appreciated the lack of focus on his part in that moment. He was right when he claimed I didn't know how to shoot. Bullet after bullet was wasted as I missed the mark.

"There could be money involved in this, Morgan," countered Bill.

Until now their words were amid.

"You know there just might be no damn money," Arthur chided. "From what it sounds like the Grays are onto us as much as the Braithwaites."

"That's why Micah think we'll need another gun," he pressed.

"Micah? Why didn't I guess he'd be planning this?"

"We got him and Sean so far."

"Bringing two people no one in Rhodes has seen before, that won't make them suspicious at all! Not to mention one of them burned the Gray's fields. It's obviously a trap and even if it's not you know we won't make it out of there with our guns holsters with him."

Bill waved him off. He didn't try to hide his withering patients and his tone showed that. "You coming or not?"

"Let me finish up here," Arthur sighed after hesitation.

"Meet us at the far end of town then." Bill grumbled off, and mounted onto a dark steed that represent his own built; strapping, wide and surly looking.

I had long deserted my practice as Arthur returned. Their conversation had left my mind to ponder. While I couldn't acknowledge it, I appreciate it for I could not subsist with another round of failures. I could never even rest the rifle in range of sight in fear of the mockery I felt while looking at it.

"You'll need the rifle in hand if you want to shoot something," he jested.

My laugh was stiff.

"Don't tell say you've given up already," he said, bending his knees to reach my level.

Shame returned to me, like the hunting day, now in a new form. I couldn't accept Arthur's stare set on me. I couldn't even admit my defeat out loud because I feared giving my failure more power. I only nodded.

"Why?"

"Be ...because I lied. I didn't do much hunting ...I never actually killed something, I just use to practice at my father's range and even then I couldn't ...I was lucky, sometimes." The fawn returned to memory. "With those O'Driscolls, I was lucky ...but I'm not like you, or the rest of them. I'm not like Dutch. Even men like Bill and Micah can do it."

I heaved myself back onto my feet. "I'm sorry I wasted your time, Arthur."

"Well, if people like Micah and I can then it must not be so hard," he insisted and reached for the rifle. "Come on. Try again. You'll need to know this if you want to go out with us."

There was a flash of comfort, even pleasure in his words. Until I peered at the bottles that still stood with their jeering appearance, I wanted to reacquire my gun and prove myself. Looking back to Arthur, I only saw pity. "I'm not going to go out ...I'm sorry I begged so much, I suppose the idea is fun, but you were right, in reality it's just danger and certain death for me. I'm not one of you. I'm not one of anything really."

But he would not let me abandon the range.

He pulled me back upon my recoil, weighed the rifle back into my grip and escorted me towards the barrels.

"You don't have to ride with us. But you gotta learn to protect yourself," he asserted in a gentle tone. "Here, I'll sure you a few things."

I trembled as his hands crept around my waist. He jested out a scorn, one I was too apprehensive to laugh at. Farther upwards his fingers slinked. Into my hands they adjusted the rifle and altered my aim.

"Now, you gotta hold steady and firm."

I lifted my posture.

"And focus ... breathe slowly."

I inhaled a large breath that ached my chest the longer I held it.

"...And always pull the trigger on empty lungs..."

When all his instructions were followed, I released my breath and let the world descend from existence. My attention engaged at my target. I didn't allow my mind to wander back to quail seasons, I did not consider my failure and the shame that accompanied it. With Arthur's arm still wrapped around me, my finger squeezed the trigger.

The barrel splintered, but the bottles remained untouched.

Arthur's hands returned to his side. "Your postures off. Now, try again. Remember to shoot and breath."

"Arthur….I don't think…." With a dreaded obedience, I continued my practice with persisting failure. He was patient though, and I couldn't conclude whether it came from an excuse to avoid Bill, or an ounce of him saw potential. When one of the bottles finally shattered he was pleased, which made my sudden victory more significant. Where I saw a stroke of luck, he saw improvement.

Time ran on until he brought the training to a halt. He couldn't spare another moment without Micah and the rest angered by his delay.

"Are you sure you should go?" I inquired as we weaved through the forest towards the horses. "I know, after the O'Driscolls and what that man Colm did ...I just…."

Arthur whistled a sharp tune that summoned his horse. "Nah, I'll be fine. Don't waste your time worrying about me, just keep practicing. I'll be back tonight to help you some more."

"Uh...thank you, Arthur," I breathed and started to rock back and forth on my heels. I couldn't restrain a grin. "Please, just be safe out there."

* * *

"You know what I compare you to, Miss Cornwall?" Dutch stood to my side with a cigarette secure between his fingers. "The warmth of the heart."

Though I couldn't resist blushing, my laughter was caged. "Mr. Van der Linde, have you been drinking?"

It was him who chortled now and yet unlike mine, his was free and simple. Like Dutch himself it was charming. He granted me a cigarette from his box.

"Arthur might be right about you. You're not anything like your father," he observed.

"That might be the kindest and truest thing you've said in this whole conversation," I said with a faint smile. "May I ask you something, Mr. Van der Linde?"

"Why of course, my dear."

My cheeks scorched red.

"Well….lets say my father doesn't come through," I murmured. "He doesn't try to get me back. Where do I go then?"

He pondered the question before admitting defeat. "Well, I don't know. I haven't thought of it. There might be enough money between these families we won't even have to think about our depressing millionaire Cornwall after all. I suppose once we possess a safe passage out of here you'll be free to go."

"Oh," I mouthed with a steady nod.

There was dismay in knowing Dutch hadn't invested a great deal of thought in my ordeal. There was even more knowing Father was using it as a business strategy, never intending to forfeit with him and bring me home. But in it all, the idea of being excused from this lifestyle, abandoned by Arthur and Dutch and the rest was what made my heart sink slowly inside. Like a rock tossed in the deepest center of the ocean, it descended into a cold abyss, weighed down by an unseen force.

I liked them, despite their disdain for me and their regret for taking me like they did. They were misfits, disregarded members of societies who dared go against the masses, breaking boundaries and seeking genuine freedom. And still pathetically, I couldn't even belong with them either.

But I was not one for begging and Dutch was too intimidating for me to confide in my feelings. So I found myself nodding, only nodding in wait of him excusing himself.

"Arthur says you want to go out with us," he continued.

"Both of us know there's no point in me anymore…." I sighed. "You all have a few days before you leave and venture to wherever it is you seek. If you were ever to plan a few robberies before then...I know I'm not a good shot and I might not be useful like the others, but what's an extra gun?"

"No doubt," he said with a usual gaily laugh. "If only there were more like you."

The world would be a lonely place, I thought.

"Dutch!" Micah interrupting our conversations was becoming too common. There was aggravation in him approaching, but no heart break when he left. "Kid's dead, Dutch."

My mind drew to Arthur and I sprung to my feet.

"I beg your pardon?" Dutch's tone cooled.

"That Gray fella was waiting for us in Rhode. They shot Sean' through the head," he recalled with a monotone voice. It was eerie, his lack of sympathy, as if he was divorced from emotion. "Bill's got the body and Morgan stayed behind."

Dutch's head bowed as it shook back and forth. He looked defeated.

Balancing on the tip of my toes, my hand crept onto his shoulder. "Mr. Van der Linde, I'm so sorry."

"And Sheriff Gray?" he inquired after a hushed thank you.

"Dead," Micah replied.

"Good. That's all that matters." Dutch shooed him off before turning to me to do the same. "Miss Cornwall, why don't you find Miss Grimshaw and see if she needs help. I must go."

I nodded with a wounded smile. "Sure. If there is anything I can do -"

"Thank you, Miss Cornwall." He shuffled off towards camp in search of Bill. I trailed behind a moment after, stepping into a gloom that only chose who it affected. I did not know Sean, then again, save Mary Beth, I did not know any of them. Sean was just another daunting face I saw, either when I peeked their way or they passed mine. He was a willowy figure, short and blessed with fringed, orange hair brighter than the fires of hell. And while I try not to speak black and red words about the dead other than my mother, I cannot resist in saying Sean was obnoxious. His sometimes impenetrable accent originated in Ireland, like Molly's and yet, though I only ever heard her yelling, hers was serene. I wonder if some shared that thought as well due to the lack of mourning. There was more anger if anything.

Karen sat at the table, comforted by a beer bottle in hand she took generous gulps from every few seconds. Mary Beth and Tilly stood to both her sides. Their sadness came not from mourning, but sympathy.

"Amelia…." begun Mary Beth but was tangled by the reality of her words. "Sean's dead."

The bottle Karen kept firm in her grasp descended onto the table and she jumped to her feet. She darted off from camp, seeking the solitude where she wouldn't have to hear those words again and they could haunt her at her own pace.

"Poor Karen," whispered Mary Beth while shaking her head. "She always had a thing for Sean even though she won't admit."

"She'll deny it too, but now…." Tilly sighed. "I just hope…"

We exchanged a set of inflicted stares.

"Karen's strong," I blurted. "She always had been. When I first met her she intimidated me more than Miss Grimshaw or even some of the men. She still does."

"That thing, Karen's too strong to admit what's wrong." Now Tilly was shaking her head. "Let's just be grateful this is almost over."

Conversation was strained and forced afterwards. Talk wasn't so much a means of enlivement as it was to occupy us from sorrow. We picked at conversation straws between moments of unwelcomed silence. It wasn't insipid and still it was forgettable.

There was bitter relief when Hosea interrupted us.

"We already know about Sean," Tilly muttered, bringing him to a stop.

His stare floated over the three of us. "No, it's Jack. Have any of you seen him?"

* * *

**Guys I have returned...a 100 years later! In my defense I just started to school and my boyfriend decided he was still in love with his ex wife...but that's okay, i'm alright, I have cheesecake and booze and I'm going to be okay...*awkward laughter* I can't blame the man I'm like 7 ads in a 15 minute Youtube video. Anyways, I've missed you, you sweet sexy bastards. No wonder he left me. But here is another chapter. Next one is in progressed so I don't think it will be a 5 year delay, but you never know. Life it's a crazy, dizzy ride to nowhere I tell ya! Okay you guys, read, review, follow, favorite, or not, I ain't your boss. Thank you all who have already done so! Until next time you guys! Remember drugs, not pugs.**


	9. Chapter 9

Catherine Braithwaite.

I knew her only by the image my mind created for me. I envisioned a woman the age of Miss Grimshaw, who shared the grating personality and flat face she had. But while the days that became years of traveling, sleepless nights and Dutch's sudden commands drained the youth out of her, Catherine remained prim and proper. She stuck out like a sore thumb as a lady in a backwood's town. From the vile details Arthur used to describe Rhodes and the few I captured in passing conversations, it was an eerie place trapped in a past decade.

They all knew she had taken Jack. Not a word spoken disrupted that.

Arthur had returned, only to remount with the others a quick conversation later. The men assembled at Dutch's instructions, leaving Micah and Kerian behind as lookout. The women tend to Abigail, ushering her off to her to her tent. I stood on the outskirts, witnessing the mayhem, while seeking a less obvious placement.

"Miss Cornwall." Dutch took the corner of my side, acquiring a Springfield Rifle. He offered me it along with an opportunity of possible death or possible acceptance in the gang. In the moment, it was a simple decision. "Does your proposal still stand?"

My lips lifted into a low smile. I welcomed the rifle into my hands. "Yes."

"Good," he said with a nod of approval. Then he peered to Arthur who was now the one watching from afar. "Arthur, she'll ride with you."

Arthur's mouth opened to speak, to protest I assume, but Dutch knew time as an enemy.

"You sure you wanna do this, Amelia?" Arthur queried. "I know you want to get out there, but this….This ain't a haunting trip or quick score like we planned."

"Lord above, Arthur, it's confronting an old bitty and getting Jack back. You talk as if we're robbing a city bank in broad daylight." I recoiled from my sudden outburst. But the sudden change of me being feeble and meek to uncensored and callous amused him. There was a dim smile on his face as he assisted me up.

"I don't know if it's going to be that simple. That old bitty is angry. And her sons, well they're angry too."

"So are we," I retorted while I adjusted myself. "I promise, Arthur, you won't even know I'm there."

"Here you are, wanting to be among the men and you can't even ride like us," he chatsied with a low laugh. He, in my confusion, gestured towards my side - saddle position.

"Oh shut up," I murmured. The rush of what was and what was about to happen had broken me from my humble quietness I assumed was eternal. I felt a welcomed change taking over me. Venturing out into the world, once I saw as bleak and raw, made me squirm, not from fear but anticipation. I sat upwards to see pass Arthur's shoulders.

Dutch was a speck in my vision as he took lead. Hosea and John road behind by a mere inch. Then Bill and Charles. Following them was Lenny and Javier. Arthur and I concluded the line. Conversation was difficult with the distance between each other and still they tried. Sean. The Grays. Whatever Rhodes stood for had little meaning now.

Pass the forest concealing camp was open, barren lands, untouched by man. The road widened. A lesion of stars rested overhead, illuminating are path. Talk continued but had shifted towards the fortunate both Braithwaites and Grays possessed. The rumor had become so frequent among camp even I knew about it. It was a ruse Hosea admitted, to darken an already sullen mood. Their scheme was falling between their fingers faster than water.

"For Christ's sake, Hosea!" chided John, whose last ounce of patients had withered. I sympathize for him. While I had never spoken a word to him before and Arthur had already planted a bleak reputation for him in my mind, I liked him for reasons I couldn't fathom. Perhaps I didn't want to. "After all that, another perfect scam."

"We underestimated them," admitted Hosea with a dismal in his tone.

"No they underestimated us," Dutch corrected. "Enough talk, there is not point arguing how we got here. This where we are and we are going to fix it. So come on!"

Our pace hastened.

My body felt set on fire by the sudden wave of energy taking over. I wanted to run, to move, to do anything than continue in the dreaded wait. Our road was short and still felt like the weight of a lifetime prison sentence. The sight of a chipped white paint came into view greeting us onto the Braithwaite estate. The air was thick and a scent of apples, tickling my nostrils, once we passed it. The trees, once clustered together creating a moss - draped oasis overhead, now stood in a single row on each side of the path.

The sudden injection of reality slowed by thoughts as the outside world sped by. Whatever delusional courage and excitement my mind had protected me with was gone. Fear didn't delay replacing it. We had reached the gates, wide open, like the Braithwaite were ones to hail visitors. Beyond them was an unseeable faith I no longer wanted to endure. I wanted to run. I was a coward all my life for I was raised as one with my sheltered existence, always protected and ushered away from danger. I was unprepared and impulsive, steered by fantasies of Dutch's approval, Arthur's attention and my admission into the gang, believing this my chance for redemption. The consequences of my desires were waiting for me and I had no ability to escape.

"You sure you wanna do this?" he asked for a final time. He assisted me onto my feet.

The sight of him brought me to my senses. "Yes….Yes, I mean, it's just an old lady. An old lady with…..sons, as you mentioned ...Does her sons by chance have guns?

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Just wanted to make sure," I whispered.

Dutch yelled for us closer. "Come on, lets get this done. John, you sure you're okay?"

John nodded. "Like I said, I'm fine."

"Follow my lead," he said and equipped his pistol. "Both theses redneck families think they can ruin us? I don't think so."

Ambling forth I felt morbid in taking a fondness for the manor. It was a traditional antebellum plantation house, touched by time but still conversed in trited beauty; a foul beauty, created by blood and sweat of marginalized men. I was raised by my family to believe war not as an evil or a division, but a profit. It was in those years Father obtained most of his fortune that secure his wealth. I could not help but ponder if there was a buried shame in people like him, people like the the Braithwaites, who saw suffering as opportunity and if that's why they concealed themselves away from the world. At the end of the path several men awaited our expected arrival. Three more surfaced from the balcony. Their weapons, either lowered or holstered, intimidated me with just the sight of them.

"What the hell you want?" They were not ones for formality and while Dutch often was, more for manipulation than courtesy, he shared the same candid approach.

"We've come for the boy. You must have known we would."

"Shouldn't have messed with our business, now should you?"

"Whatever complaint you have with us - alleged or otherwise - that is a young boy. That is not the way you do things. Hand him over."

"Get the hell off our land!"

Hands crept towards their guns.

"If you ain't going to be civil about this..." Dutch shot first and the rest followed.

I hadn't even reached for my rifle before Arthur threw me behind the nearest cart. He told me to stay down but the moment was not suited for obedience. I peaked upwards, raising my rifle that had a trigger heavier than I remembered. Arthur's teaching went astray in the chaos. I stood with the gun cowering close to my chest, stilted and tense, as I wasted bullet after bullet. The sight was humiliating and to whatever fortune I had, unseen for the others were absorbed in their own fight. I was left unattended and forgotten, leaving me to my own actions when as they advanced closer to the house. In my attempt to reload, my fingers trembling as I produced the bullets from my pocket, my eyes narrowed at the sight surrounding me.

Bodies piled in front of the manor. The cream walls were splattered with red. Between crackles of rifles there were foreign sounds. I cannot say if they were cries or shrieks, or a mix of both. I only remember them as a shrill noise, produced by intense of terror and agony. My body numbed to the vision in front of me. Even in the small moment I glanced upon it, I would be cursed with the memory of it forever.

"You alright?" inquired Javier.

I glanced towards him and finding my words had vanished, I nodded.

As the path cleared, Dutch summoned Arthur, Hosea and John into the house. I, along with the others, were assigned to keep watch. Before he obeyed, Arthur asked Lenny to watch me, a request I was visibly miffed at. But he did not give me time to defend myself. Dutch was calling him.

The task after that was slow and unfilling. I scuffled around, collecting profitless trinkets - souvenirs, if anything - that had fallen off in battle. The others engaged in conversation I wished to participate in, but had no strength to. I stood farther away, erecting plans to redeem myself, when another surge of men.

Two wagons appeared from the dark, producing a party of armed men that didn't dither with their fire. Remembering Arthur's order, Lenny turned his attention from shooting to my security. I was shuffled behind the cart, once again, with him towering over me. Just above us Arthur and John had taken position. I groveled farther, concealing my face, not from the fear of being struck, but of shame and anger. The rage, forging inside me, was overflowing like a pot abandoned over the fire. The day I hunted with my brothers, the fawn I couldn't kill, their mockery, all resurfaced. The events of that day wavered in my mind, evoking my already ferocious state.

A round of bullets passed me as I sprung to my feet. I lifted my rifle towards the closest Braithwaite. The surroundings, once stealing my attention, ascended from my mind. I only thought of him as a speck, a single piece of dust, that only I could see. Imagining Arthur's hand adjusting my tense stance, I drew in a heavy breath that was released with the trigger.

He fell seconds after.

"Len - Lenny! Lenny!" I stammered as I pulled on his shirt for his approval. "Did you see that! I got him!"

The world was quick to balance the score. In the moment of my elation, a bullet encountered my upper shoulder. "Damnit!"

Lenny rushed to my side. I didn't spare a moment shooing him. "I'm alright. I'm ...fine."

Another round of burning sensation left my mind vandalized. As I persisted with my bleak words, more grumbles and moans that detectable language, _ saw through my lies. He forced me down. Pain made reception easier than what stubbornness would have allowed. The _ and the concern for _ and _ possible shame diminished as my thoughts constantly fall back onto my wound. Sounds were simple hums and my sight, whatever wasn't clouded, was tripled.

"You know, you got some work ahead of you…." I peered towards Lenny who was kind enough to aid me. He was a decent man, moreso boy, who I often saw as out of place in the gang. "But you're not too bad."

"Is it over?" I breathed. My stare balanced between him, the others and the fresh bodies lolling near.

"Amelia." Charles' unrecognizable voice made me jump. He was a man of few words, not directly at me, but everyone. "You alright?"

I nodded.

"You sure?" pressed Lenny as we moved closer to Javier and Bill. Charles was already at their sides.

"Yes...thanks, it just hurts….like hell," I whimpered.

We reached the others in the midst of Bill pacing. "I think we should go in there. I heard two shots already."

"There's four of them, Bill," reminded Charles.

"I'm sure they're fine," Javier assured. "It's a big house. Jack could be anywhere in it. And look at how many men we already kill."

"You'll saying there isn't a chance -"

Bill's words came to a halt at a scream from the manor. A haunting, detached shriek. We looked towards it, only to hear the whispers of the wind. Smoke was sneaking out from the windows, rising above the house higher and higher. At the sudden gust of air, it spun and danced away from existences. Orange and amber colors glinted in the corner of the house. As the colors grew, farther they prowled over the manor until it consumed the second level. A majestic red shadow had overtaken the night sky and stretched over us.

The screams returned, becoming louder as the smoke thickened.

I cried, not from any dismay - in that moment I could not feel - but by the tainted air seeping into my body and against my eyes. Old paint and charred wood filled my nostrils. As I watched them melt away, their existence now speckles of ash, only the bones the house stood on were left. Years of enslaving and sins, persistent breeding and ascendancy were crumbling with the structure. It was an appealing, gruesome sight I saw through blurred eyes. I did not think of Arthur, Dutch, Hosea or John, I didn't remember them, until the doors swung up and a black fog flew out. Behind it Hosea and John appeared. Dutch followed, presenting us with an immodestly dressed Catherine Braithwaite draped across his shoulder. Her fists wailed against his back and her body writhed to escape. He laughed at her attempts for freedom and the curses she shouted at him before disregarding her to the ground.

Her wide eyes floated over us as the fire reflected in them. The glimpse I saw of her disproved my previous assumptions. Time had been an enemy of hers. She was grey, wrinkled and spotted. She acknowledged me, only for a moment, before directing her heed to Hosea. In that time I saw her I noted a superiority, a self - centered vanity, that resembled one similar to my father's.

"Why'd you take the boy, Miss Braithwaite?" Hosea inquired.

"You stole my liquor," she seethed.

Hosea didn't wait for the conclusion of her list. "Boys are off limits."

"You stole my horses! Ain't no rules in war, Mr..." she disputed.

"Matthews."

"Yes, yes that's it," she whimpered.

"Where's the boy?"

Catherine adjusted herself at the question. She saw the sudden attentiveness in all of us inching us forwards. The want for an answer. The need for it.

"My sons gave him to Angelo Bronte. So my guess is Saint Denis. Either there or on the boat to Italy!"

I recoiled at the name as Arthur's stare fall onto me. The others exchanged their grim expressions among one another. Noting the shift, Catherine was happy. Only for a moment, before Dutch dismissed us, abandoning her to her own devices. She was crazy, Hosea mentioned as we left. And indeed she was. Insane and lost. I will never know if she was always that way or the night's proceedings - the deaths of her sons, the desolation of her home that had raised generation after inbreed generation, and then having to face her conquerors - had awoken something. I can only admit I felt no pity on her. Perhaps many would pardon her of what she had done, even justify her actions, but seeing that look in her eye, the one I was all too familiar with I wanted her to endure the same consequences I dreamt my father and all his pawns would face one day.

Catherine Braithwaite and a part of my innocence died that night.

* * *

I didn't sleep that night.

Whenever I closed my eyes Catherine was waiting for me and the image of her, scampering into the manor, destined to die. The scent of smoke, still lingering on my coat, the twist of my arm and blisters on my finger reminded me of what had happened. My puckered lips welcomed the lite cigarette between my fingers. I drew in a large breath of smoke, of relief, into my lungs and held onto it for a minute. The taste was bitter and droll. The regular content it provided no longer came.

"You weren't that bad out there," admitted Arthur as he passed by. "How's the arm?"

I shrugged, a hasty choice that reminded me of my wound, before presenting him with a cigarette he accepted with obvious hesitation.

At his apparent wonder I produced the carton from my side. "Took it off one of the Braithwaite men. It's not stealing if they're dead, right?"

He grinned an untelling grin. "No, I suppose not."

"Oh good, because I also got this…." From my pocket emerged a silver pocket watch I granted him as a petty token of gratitude. Then came a pistol. Worn. Rustic. And still I found an abnormal pride in it. "And this."

"We've ruined you."

I waved him off. "No. That was fun, save the burning house and demented old lady and us not finding Jack and having to go back to Saint Denis."

Arthur's chuckles were low. "You got a weird sense of fun."

"That I can agree on," I whispered.

"You'll get tired of it ...eventually."

My posture sank. "Do you think I'll be here long enough to get tired of it?"

* * *

**Hello my beautiful readers, I have finally returned with another chapter that again should be killed with fire. Just like the last eight of them! I apologize for the delay, but I've been incredibly busy sitting on my couch, watching public freakout videos and Sovereign Citizens getting arrested, wondering why I can't get my life together. Huh, I'm not sure...Anyways, thank you all for the most recent followers and favorites! I'm halfway through the next chapter (I know I'm actually getting some done, it's crazy how that happens) so I'll have it up shortly. Until than thank you everyone for reading, remember drugs not pugs and always wear a rain coat because you never know when it might rain.**


	10. Chapter 10

"Miss Cornwall."

"Mr. Van der Linde." By Dutch's hasty instructions we were to dismantle the camp and assemble our belongings. Having no possessions of my own, but second hands from Mary Beth, I was the first to fulfill the my satchel in hand I waited with eyes the others, but a mind elsewhere. His approach came as a relief, sparing me from the persistent boredom that came between Miss Grimshaw' s shouting fits.

"Now, I've sent John and Arthur east of here, to a place called Shady Belle. Him and Lenny think it will work for us just for a few days," he began. I wished to ask him, or any of them really, why we were leaving an area we had grown so fond of. But Dutch was too far into his words and I feared the possibility of looking dense that I disregarded the question. "Once we get settled, Arthur and I going into this seventh wonder of the world, Saint Denis, to find this Bronte feller. That's where I need your help?"

"Are we going to find him and set his house on fire?" I inquired.

Dutch fought back a grin.

"There's also my father's summer home...Just an idea."

"I appreciate your spirit, but right now we need to find this Bronte and get Jack back. Now, you, you're familiar with the city?"

I hesitated with my lie. "Well, yes. Yes I am. I did stay there for a few weeks."

He paused out of doubt, I assume. When he finally resumed his words, his voice had lowered. "Good. We should start heading out. Miss Grimshaw, how much longer?"

Miss Grimshaw was scolding Tilly as she cried out a reply. A few more minutes. Dutch and I conversed lightly within that time, but my mind had drifted off. Clemen's Point stood as the bare land it once was, save a few abandoned pieces of camp. The horses and their consistent grazing left the grass uneven. Our footsteps left the rest trampled. I felt appalled seeing it stripped of what it once was. Home. The others moved so quickly I suspected they didn't see it as that. This was a common occurrence for them. Never settling in one spot. Never getting comfortable.

I envied them as much as I envied the next soul to come upon that land. They would never understand how fond I was of that silly place, for it was there I like to believe my grief and bitterness is buried.

I whistled back to where Cain lolled in rays of sun. "Come on boy!"

* * *

The doors of Shady Belle opened to our arrival.

From the other side Arthur appeared, with arms spread, as if to embrace our appearance.

"Welcome, all of you, to my humble abode! We got fine living!" he approved. "If you ignore the corpses and the alligators!"

Dutch sprung from his saddle, with eyes floating over the scene. His high-level simper spoke his words before he said them. "I love it!"

The Shady Belle Manor was another antebellum plantation house that trifled in both size and upkeep compared to the Braithwaite's. It stood in a state of disarray only time could cause. The once white walls were stained and blotted yellow, with chips and cracks stretching higher and higher. The windows, what few still stood unshattered, were fogged with grim. Moss draped over the roof, suppling from nearby black trunk trees. To the side a stream of algae rested, harboring vile creatures I only read of and wished to keep it that way.

A mosquito droned in my ear while another pinched at my skin.

I had yet to find a redeeming quality of the new site, save Arthur and Dutch's appeal. There wasn't much time invested for searching. Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson were recreating another camp as the others deboarded from the wagons. Dutch had ushered Arthur to their horses and I followed.

"I don't know Dutch, just because it's been a while doesn't mean it's safe." Arthur peered towards me as I took to his side.

"Right now, finding Jack is our priority and we need to do that quick," reminded Dutch. "Amelia is the only one of us who knows the city."

A quirk in his brow emerged. I saw his mind rushing back to one of our previous conversation where I admitted my solitude upon coming to Saint Denis. Before I allowed another interjection and my own fear to build farther, I bleated out, "Yes! Remember, Arthur...I told you a few stories about the theaters….the waterfront…..the feminism. I suppose I went on and on about it so much you grew bored!"

His confused expression twisted into mockery. "Oh, that's right. I've never heard someone talk so much about a place. Why don't you tell Dutch all about it on our ride there?"

I waved him off with a caged laugh. "No, if it bored you I'm sure Mr. Van der Linde will find just as dull."

Dutch followed the conversation with half attention. The other half was impatiently waiting for us to conclude and go on our way. He produced a hat from his side – velvet black, with a violet ribbon and grey strip – that he adjusted onto my head, only for it to consistently hang low. Peeking up half my vision was cut off by the rim.

"That's the mastery disguise?" scoffed Arthur.

"You have a better idea, son?" he retorted. "Now, Miss Cornwall, we don't want to attract any unwanted attention. When we get there keep your head down, don't approach anyone and let Arthur and I do any talking."

I nodded as he listed his rules, now the one growing impatient. Mounting came as a relief that vanished at Molly's call. While the rest of the gang saw her as mere speck, I had come to like her or like what I knew about her. She was tetchy. Blunt. And like me she was tangled in the dread state of one-sided love. We were two demented women cursed by it.

"Dutch!" She stepped fleetly into speech.

Dutch only satisfied her with a glance and a short 'yes?'.

"May I have a word with you?" she asked. Her voice whimpered as if it was a plea instead of a question.

"Not now." He rode off, leaving Arthur and I linger behind in the tension. I saw a familiar dismay overtake Molly. I wanted to comfort her, but Arthur had already let out a click and the horse trotted. From behind I watched her arms fall to her side in surrender. She shuffled back to Shady Belle in shame, set to sulk away the day.

The topic of her remained short throughout the ride. She was no matter to Dutch now. And selfishly I couldn't help but wonder if one day I too would just be a bleak memory to him.

* * *

So long I had dreaded the return to Saint Denis.

I only offered my service, or lack thereof, to be in the company of Arthur and Dutch. The need to be wanted was fulfilling far more than fear of bitter memories. Before them I saw the city as a layer of hell. The air was always dense and hot, like it was sitting on the bottom of a boiling kettle. A fog followed overhead, conceived by the outskirt factories pumping out tainted smoke throughout the day. The peopled chained to the town paraded down the streets. Some with their noses high, some with heads bowed. And still an emptiness excelled in all of them.

But with the men, the daunting appearance had eased. I saw the city now as a diverse world bursting of ambitions and adventure.

"Miss Cornwall, where is the saloon?" Dutch sprung down from his horse.

Saint Denis was congested with people, too superior and others too stupid to avoid crosswalks when in presences of trotting horses.

"Miss Cornwall?"

My eyelids roused.

I dallied for as long as I could despite his apparent annoyance. "Well uh….I uh, let me think. There's one around here…..somewhere. And then there's another. Or is there three? Four seems excessive."

My family had acquired its wealth through generations of liars and manipulators. Both were skills I failed to master.

"Two, yes, two of them….I just was never for the drink, so I had only ever puh – puh – passed them. But yes….there's three….tuh – two. Two"

Dutch's exhausted expression never changed.

"You sure about that, Amelia?" jeered Arthur who found delight in my sputter.

"Yes…." I breathed. I had grown appreciative of my hat shading me from their narrowing eyes. "There's one here on the wealthier side of town. I suspect another one on the less…..fortunate side."

"You suspect?" murmured Dutch.

"I never really ventured that way….being wuh – rich and that," I quavered.

Dutch, knowing time as a foe, pardoned another round of dallying. Instead he instructed Arthur as I drifted to the side. "Right, Arthur take her to that one. I'll take the other. Remember what I said, we remain subtle and don't attract any unwanted attention. Miss Cornwall, keep your head down. Now, what way is the other saloon?"

My brow twitched while my finger roused to the tallest building peeking out from the clouds enveloping Saint Denis. He followed the trembling aim with stepped weighted by hesitation. Arthur took lead as we parted down the opposite road. Unlike Dutch, he was not quick to ignore my naiveness.

"I remember you telling me you knew nothing about here," he begun despite my widening eyes. "Then you go tell Dutch you know the ins and outs of this place. Now I'd ask who you were lying to, but you've made that answer pretty clear back there."

I trailed behind with my head bowed in shame. The walkway, once started as setts, had devolved into a dirt pathway that reflected our previous footsteps. The air was hotter than usual or perhaps my skin was flushing harder. I couldn't say. I couldn't say anything properly in that moment.

"You, uh…. think he knows I'm….uh luh – lying?" I murmured.

"Even Swanson on his worst day could tell you were lying." He weaved us through passbys, whose wandering eyes never meant my own. There was no reason to follow Dutch's rule to stay low. Not a poster or an abandoned newspaper was left in Saint Denis imploring my return. I did it out of the agonizing embarrassment that flowed through me. "Listen, I know Dutch's got a famous charm to him –"

I peered up. "What?"

Our trekked concluded at the end of the street corner. We waited in the shadow of telephone line as carriages and riders passed. Beyond them a brick stone establishment waited, luring in several men, while several others exited. Angry, working men who were allured by the promotions painted on the walls. Beer. Liquor. An escape to what ailed you. Above them, pass the iron railing, the name Doyle's Tavern stretched across the stones.

"Him with words, that his gift. Just be careful…." he continued. "You don't know this world very well. Dutch isn't that kind of man out of one of your stories."

"I think you're misreading things," I countered. "Dutch likes to talk and I'm rather good at listening…. due to the fact I don't often talk."

"All I'm saying is be careful. Dutch has been playing people for a long time now –"

"The saloon is over there," I faltered and aimed another twitched finger, directed towards the building across the street.

I excused myself from going farther. With the conversation still fresh I felt the sudden loss of appeal for Arthur. Buried in my mind I had always known he saw me as delicate. Out of place. Naïve. Perhaps I was, but not of my own choosing. I would have surrendered the years of governess priming me into a failed lady, the unfailing parties and the money used to shelter me from struggle to have the insight the others did. I wished to understand deception. When to trust and when not to. To see the world beyond golden laced, jeweled curtains.

At his return we smattered, an exchange tense and fleet from both parties. Walking back we were both unspoken. He had yet to find detail on Bronte, other than the man loomed over everyone's head in town. They feared him, so enough the inquiry of them made them coy. South of the city the Bastille Saloon - an inviting establishment for the well heeled members of society - stood with more promise. At the sight of Dutch waiting on the outskirts, I drifted off across the street, taking solitude upon a bench near the park.

I wasn't missed by either as time ran and they continued to conversed.

I watched only for a moment. After Arthur's second gesture towards me I found safety in setting my attention elsewhere. The city had a good many things to distract one's mind. People flashed before in their leisure strolls. Guards gazed amongst citizens. The sound of a trolley bell thickened in the air as the device screeched pass me. Written across the box was a name that haunted me despite waking to it everyday.

"Miss Cornwall, how does it feel to be back to the civilized world? A city full of papist and rapist!" he bleated while taking a seat to my side. "And still this is what they claim to be the future!"

My stare shifted across the scene. "What a sad future…."

"That it will be," he chuckled. He leaned back to absorb the sight.

"Did you find Mr. Bronte?" I inquired.

Dutch scoffed. "I wasn't so lucky inside, so I sent Arthur to try instead. We are going to find him and we are going to get the boy back no matter what it takes."

His passion was a strange, deceptive delight. I always nodded along to it.

"May I ask you something?" I steadily murmured.

"Of course, my dear," he cooed.

My body slanted towards his direction and my voice dropped. "With the Braithwaite lady burnt, the Gray man shot and uh my father still a heartless ass, how do you plan on getting to Tahiti?"

His expression twisted. "Have faith, Amelia. Don't start doubting me like the rest."

Arthur's previous words crept back.

"We've survived far worst and this city, there's opportunity somewhere waiting for us." His fingers bent into a fist. "This, this town has the money we need. I can feel it. Now we just need to find out how to get it."

"Such as robbing someone's summer home and setting it ablaze?" I recommended.

His laughter was gentle enough it was charming. "Maybe another time. I'm sure old Cornwall won't mind us dipping our hands into his profit once again in the future."

My eyes narrowed.

It was a quaint idea.

"What do you know about the bank here?" continued Dutch.

Farther my head inched forth and lower my tone went. "Mr. Van der Linde, have you not noticed I've been lying to both you and Arthur this pass hour and truly know nothing about this city?"

His head recoiled, while his expression darkened the farther he moved. My own creased with confusion. I had no confident left in my lie. It was as see through as sheer. Arthur knew that. I had expected Dutch to know as well, as I never took him as dim. All the reading he did I assumed he was far more intelligent than the rest.

"I am sorry….And…." Watching a sly smirk waver across his face, I became the one withdrawing. "You already knew I was lying."

"I did."

"I am…. sorry. It's been a while since I've been out…. about twenty years actually. It's rather boring always being on the side, I just wanted to do something…."

To my fortune, he didn't scold me. Instead he nodded along the same way I nodded to his words. He understood and more so, he appreciated my devotion. Loyalty, it was all he required. At that time, I wanted to fulfill his need in a blind desperation. I wanted him to propose the idea of staying with him and the others, and if I needed to manipulate myself or my words, I would do that. Not to say my words than were not true. Life before this had left me feeling like an unfilled vessel.

"Miss Cornwall, you are more than welcomed to join us in Tahiti."

My insides rapped against me.

The words I had desired were now spoken and I couldn't register them.

"You only had to ask." Dutch leaned forward. Down the walkway Arthur scuttled towards us. "Where have you been?"

Arthur looked unnerved. "Getting robbed."

"Who by?" he inquired with an arbor in his words.

He paused before scowling, "A bunch of children."

Dutch's laughter drew me out of thought. "I won't inquire anymore."

He lifted to his feet, but I remained seated. I had nothing to contribute to the conversation other than intrusion. I allowed myself to only listen, which came as a mental battle. Dutch and mine prior conversation still lurked, ready to steal my attention.

"But, I found Mr. Bronte. Seems to be some Italian, mister big in town," divulged Arthur. "Everybody knows him, but nobody wants to talk to him. Apparently, he lives in a big house on Flavian Street, opposite of the park."

I cringed in secret at the name. Flavian Street.

"So what now?" he queried.

Dutch appeared pleased with his consistent nodding. "We go pay him a visit. I'll get John and you meet us there. Whatever it takes, we need to get that boy back."

* * *

**I've returned my lovely readers with another chapter...that yet again has kicked my ass. It beat me harder than Father Time. But another chapter, yah. You know guys, I have to admit, keeping Dutch and Arthur in character is more painful than when my mom told me she understood why I didn't have friend. It's difficult. You'd think the whole game revolving around the two of them I could at least get something, but I always find myself ruing their characters farther and farther into oblivion. Okay, maybe a little extreme but you get my drift. Anyways, thank you all for the followers and favorites and lovely reviews! Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers and to the other fine countries, have a kick ass day none the less!**


	11. Chapter 11

Arthur, Dutch and John ventured out that next morning to meet the infamous Angelo Bronte.

Mary Beth and Tilly were mending and washing clothes under Miss Grimshaw's glare, when not consoling a distressed Abigail. Without them loneliness quickly settled in. I was reaching my fifth lap around the manor when Hosea waved me over. Lenny, Pearson, Strauss and him had occupied a game of poker since morning. His invitation to join was unexpected and quickly declined in a stutter.

"I've never actually puh – played," I murmured.

"Hosea's a fine teacher," pressed Lenny and gestured towards the open chair between them.

"Trust me, dear, I've taught a variety of fools," he convinced.

I took the unoccupied chair as Pearson shuffled the deck from across. After sliding each of us two concealed cards Lenny didn't delay with contributing to the pot. Strauss followed, and then Pearson . Reaching him, Hosea folded with a sigh.

"Not feeling lucky today, are we?" quipped Pearson.

"Hosea knows I need all the help and attention I can get," I spluttered.

Lenny pitied me with a soft grin, while the rest remained silent. I glanced back to Hosea, while flashing him my cards; a four of hearts and a five of clubs. He hesitated, only to nod for me to continue. Perhaps I would be blessed with a case of beginner's luck, he thought.

"Don't worry, Miss Cornwall, certainly if men like Mr. Williamson can manage to win, you will prove lucky at least once," assured Strauss. "He still believes my home country of Austria is where kangaroos live."

Pearson presented a nine of hearts into the center of the table.

"Let's not forget Arthur either," reminded Lenny who, to Pearson's elation, folded.

"How do you gentlemen think they're getting on in Saint Denis?" Strauss queried, while adding another chip into the pot.

"Well, Mr. Morgan's never been one for the cities," Pearson chuckled.

Hosea nodded. "That he hasn't. But when I saw Dutch coming back to camp, wide eyed and ambitious, and Arthur following behind dumb and angry, I knew we were going to be here for a while."

Talk continued with the game. I was never daring enough to raise, but optimistic enough to call. I had lost Hosea's guidance to the exchange of stories, leaving me to my own untaught devices. At the flip of the final card, seven of hearts was already bent across the table collecting his winnings. Pearson was not humble with his victories, I learned during that round and the next several. He proposed dominoes with one of the women was a game better equipped for me once I busted out, leaving Lenny's promise of a future game dreaded.

Dusk had come by that time.

Through shadows festering over the nearest forest, the obscured, faint sound of voices riffled through the trees. Horse reins jingled, while their hooves pattered against the ground. Bill was the first to spot the men emerging from the dark. In front of John, secured in his arms, was Jack. His frayed end pants and marred, stained shirt were replaced by a navy coat with white cuffs. Save the new attire, several new stories, and a small grasp on the Italian language, Jack had returned unfazed.

Songs were sung that night. Crates of alcohol spread around camp. The celebration left a mirth in all of us. Even after Javier's finger grew tired from brushing the strings of his guitar and his throat strained from singing, Dutch retrieved his gramophone from the upstairs quarters to continue the moment. Placing the needle upon the disc, a feminine voice bellowed out a foreign language. To find pleasure in it first took adjustment. Soon after, he ushered Miss Grimshaw close into a slow dance, that made unable to resist cracking a smile.

"I never thanked you for helping us in Saint Denis." Arthur took to my side, as I watched from the outskirts.

I sarcastically laughed. "Yes, my moral support certainly carried us all."

"You helped with the Braithwaite women," he pressed.

"You don't have to patronize me, Arthur," I admitted, though there was an ironic appeal from it. "It was you and the others who got him back. You're good men, despite how the law sees you. Despite how you see yourselves. You're much better men than those I've known."

Before he could object, I blurted out, "Also, may I borrow a dollar?"

Seeing the obvious confusion, I shared my losses at poker, leaving me defeated, ashamed and penniless. With the humiliation still fresh I couldn't face him. I could only watch from the corner of my eye as his hand wrestled into satchel and produce two tattered dollar bills.

"Sounds like I'll win these back anyways," he mocked.

"No doubt," I admitted. "I just hope you don't gloat like that enormous ass, Pearson. I mean enormous in sense of his attitude, uh, not his waist."

"Sure, you are," he agreed with significant doubt.

Following his wandering stare I noticed Mary Beth timidly approaching. She bid me a hasty greeting, one I returned, but kept her attention on Arthur.

"Care to dance, Arthur?" she inquired.

Arthur cleared his throat and attempted to readjust himself. "Uh, well…Maybe next time."

"That's what you said last time," reminded Mary Beth, with a short sight, leaving him guilty and defeated. She looked jovial when he finally murmured a yes, while he looked unsettled. I stood there dumbfounded for a moment, watching them scuttle off to the gramophone and grow close against each other, but never truly understanding what was happening. The needle was still bobbing, up and down, feeding life to the voice screeching out from the machine. As it spun around, so did Arthur and her. I was left to watch and when I couldn't watch anymore, when the realization suddenly hit, I staggered back to the front entrance of the manor, succumbing to a physical pain brewing in my chest.

"Miss Cornwall."

Dutch's voice echoed from behind. So often I welcomed his attention. In any other moment, I would spring towards his direction and beam like an animated child. Now I only welcomed my cot and a night filled with self-pity.

"Mr. Van der Linde," I whispered and brushed away an escaping tear.

"Dance with me," he proposed.

The imperative, confident tone made me shift towards him. He stepped forth with a hand stretched across the distance between us.

While I wanted to accept, the weight of sadness forced me to reject. "Maybe another night. Thank you, but I'm tired."

Yet, I lingered with his hand.

"You should dance with Molly," I insisted. "She'd love that, and I expect her to be a finer dancer than myself."

He looked weary at the mentioning of her. "I have more to worry about than Molly and her childish antics. Besides this…. This celebration and finding young Jack, came through your help. Celebrate that!"

"Forgive me for saying things above my station," I murmured, "but for the sake and sanity of all of us, you should ask her. She's been, she's hurting, Dutch. She just wants your attention."

That restless expression dimmed.

"I think I like you most when you act out of your station." He strode forth again. "This night is to honor what we've done. Don't waste it on talk and pity for the irritable O'Shea. Arthur and Mary Beth certainly aren't."

His words, so manipulative, so vindictive, left me stammering. A surge of heat swept over me as I reeled closer to him. I drew in a shallow breath, one more and then another, only to find them feeble and useless. My words came slowly, while my movement fleet. As my trembling fingers slid between his I was taken back. His attire and pose, often prim and proper, left me perceiving him as a man doted on his appearance. Yet, his hands were chapped and rough.

"You are an artful bastard," I chided as he guided us towards the gramophone.

"Indeed, I am," he agreed.

I bounced at the feeling of his hand gliding across my back. He chuckled at each twitch I made before assuring me it was alright. And I was. Dutch was gentle as he was charming. We swayed to a new crackling melody bellowing from the gramophone and in that time, I felt a foreign security in his embrace, one I had never known. One, I thought, I would never know. I granted him control over me as I grew closer against him. Every movement I made was authorized by him. A different me in a different moment would have been fretting her steps, insulting her own posture and apprehensive to the judgment of those watching. But worry didn't exist when in his arms. His touch brought upon a tranquility, that made concern powerless.

"That…. that wasn't so bad," I giggled as the recorded came to its end and Dutch withdrew.

"I told you. Now, you need to learn the other way we celebrate." His eyes floated over my shoulder, to catch Bill ambling towards the others. Two bottles of whiskey, one he had nursed throughout the night, the other untouched, were secure in his clutch. Being so loyal, his steps shifted direction the moment of Dutch's call. "The bottle, please."

Bill's loyalty faltered for a moment.

"Bill." Dutch's tone firmed.

After a moment of hesitation, followed by murmurs and a sigh, Bill surrendered. As he shuffled away, Dutch took a long swill from the bottle. Then he handed it to me, in which I accepted it with more concerned compared to him.

My nose hoovered over the bottle's top, attaining a pungent scent that flamed down my throat.

"I don't like it," I said, with a shake of the head.

"Come on, Dutch, you know she won't be able to handle it." Arthur strode closer.

"I think you're doubting Miss Cornwall too harshly, Arthur," objected Dutch.

Another whiff of whiskey had me quiver. Usually a glass of champagne in hand during dreaded parties were a conformed accessory, not a drink. Any sip I took was either lifeless or bitter. If I could not handle such a feeble liquor, I could accept drinks like whiskey and beer, the drinks of men, were beyond my limit. I couldn't accept Arthur's doubt though, nor could I reject Dutch. The scent was burning my nostrils as the bottle touched my life. Gradually, I lifted it higher and higher, before slipping from my grasp and releasing a gulp of bitter, charred wood into my mouth.

"I….I think," I choked; my words broken by my stifled coughing. "I think this is a horrible way to celebrate."

* * *

Details of the rest of the night only waver.

In one moment, I was giggling and gossiping with Karen and Tilly. Karen was inviting under the power of alcohol. I was plentiful with words. They offered me a beer. The taste was foul, worse than champagne, but pleasurable compared to the wooden taste of whiskey that still lurked in my mouth. Talk was obscured, drawn and dull, and still I found amusement in every word they said. In my blurred eyes and fuddled mine, I saw pleasure in conversation before fear. I expected happiness before disappointment.

Somehow and sometime, with that fabricated confidence, I abandoned Tilly - Karen had taken sick, before my departure – and staggered towards the table where Hosea, Bill, and Lenny sat. Javier continued to pick at the strings of his guitar nearby.

"Gentlemen," I addressed, while collapsing into the unoccupied chair. "I never got to thank you…. Remember, remember that time we set that old crone's mansion into flames! What a horrifying, beautiful night that was!"

"I told you Dutch gave her some whiskey," Bill said.

"Usually it only takes a strong drink to loosen one's tongue" murmured Hosea.

"But as I was saying, gentlemen…." I reeled towards Lenny. "What was I saying?"

"The Braithwaites," he directed.

My arm collapse onto his shoulder. "Yes, goodness, what a hag! But thank you boys, for not leaving me to die when I got shot. I would have left myself, but all personal preference I suppose."

"Well we don't leave anyone behind, Miss Amelia," Lenny affirmed. "You're kind of one of us now."

"Ha! Ain't that the truth," I blurted, and my hand collided with the table, creating a soft thud. From my coat pocket, which I quickly stripped off to surpass another wave of heat coursing through me, I retrieved my cigarettes. My quivering hand presented one to each of them and all accepted. "You know, I remember the day my father came back from…somewhere. Devil be damned, if I ever knew where he was half the time. And he came in, cursing, something about his personal train being rob. Guarded heavily too. But some damn, vile outlaws just came in and took all his bonds. Oh, I loved it! I wanted to shake that hands of those men and hot damn, here you all are in front of me!"

Hosea nodded with Bill. "We made some good money with that one too."

Bill took a swill of whiskey before glancing towards me. "If you want to cause some more problems in Cornwall's life, the kid and me may got something for you."

I shifted towards him. "Do tell!"

"Someone in Valentine was telling me about the payroll wagon arriving at the end of the week for the oil field workers," he begun. "Most of the time they aren't heavily guarded."

"Then there's the times they are," recalled Javier.

Bill's brow furrowed. "But usually, they aren't."

"Sometimes we take one of the women as distraction," divulged Lenny. "Seeing how Karen's holding up about Sean – "

"And Tilly screwing up last time," grumbled Bill.

"Well, we thought you might want to come."

"It being personal and all."

My eyes widened at the request. Perhaps it was the whiskey and its power stronger than fear, or attaining the interest of men, daunting like Bill and sharp witted like Lenny, that made me quickly accept. They were pleased. Conversation continued, though I remember little of it. Unexpectedly I found myself more of fond of the men's company compared to the women's. Karen was intimidating. Tilly and Mary Beth were kind, but I couldn't help but wonder if their kindness was a deceptive smoke screen. The men, though, were blunt. While that bluntness sometimes was accompanied by insult – the mentioning of my lack of shooting skills was tossed around – I enjoyed them.

Arthur came to collect me as the camp begun to settle in for the night. Dutch join soon after. I bid a slurred goodnight to the men before tumbling towards the manor. The route to Arthur's room remained a blur mystery. The only thing I can recall was reaching the staircase; the first step I conquered, yet to the second one my balance faltered, and I stumbled back to the landing. At the time, the strength of whiskey and beer flowing through me left the pain minimal, if not quickly forgotten. I fell into a giggling tirade as Arthur and Dutch's modified expression loomed over me.

"Miss Cornwall, are you alright?" Dutch queried, as they hoisted me back to my feet. The sympathy in his tone made me swoon.

"Well, of course, I am, Mr. Van der Linde! Of course! How could I not be? Look at where I am," I assured and reattempted the steps, now with Arthur's hoovering assistance. "We should celebrate! Another drink of whiskey!"

"No," Arthur grumbled.

"We finally agree on something," retorted Dutch.

In a blink I was in Arthur's room – a paltry section of the house, nearest to the balcony. It was like every other room. The wallpaper tattered, the floor chipped and colored by foreign stains and the smell vulgar. He had preserved the feeling of home with a few photos spread across. Trinkets and ammo occupied the table. I never paid those things heed in that moment. My intoxicated mind made them nonexistent. The only thing I saw was the cot across the room, set against the wall. I didn't want that abnormal tranquility I felt to end and yet the want to protect it subsided as I shifted into his bed.

Sleep didn't come as easy as I expected. Somewhere between out of place phases of laughter, readjusting myself and the hundredth thought wandering in my mind, I peeked up to find a blanket over me. Dutch was gone. The lack of illumination from the candle and my obscured vision left only the sight of a dark figure concealed in the far corner of the room. A floating ember stood in the middle of its outline.

"Try to get some sleep, Amelia." The figure rouse to its feet and from the dim, Arthur lumbered out with a cigarette firm between his lips. A letter, one he quickly disregarded at the sight of me, occupied the clutches of his finger.

I propped my head up into my hand as my elbow pushed deeper into the cot's fabric.

"May I have a whiff?" I murmured and welcomed the cigarette into my hand. "So, who is that love letter from?"

"What letter?"

"The one you just tossed aside, dumbass. Is it from Sadie?"

"You got the wrong idea about me and Mrs. Adler."

"Ha! Well ain't that the kettle calling the kettle…. How does that saying go again?"

Arthur shook his head, like an elderly man viewing the deviant behavior of a younger generation and retrieved his cigarette. "Look at you. Can't ride. Can't shoot. Now we learn you can't hold your liquor either! And still thinks you can handle this life."

His words came quick, but I registered them slowly. And when I understood them, they initiated something in me; a familiar, aching dismay that tightened my throat and made me choke on the air I breathed. The alcohol was no longer in my favor. The gullible bliss and childish antics withered. It was only sadness now.

"I – I – I never thought I could," I breathed.

"Calm down," he said, his tone now gentle, "I was only kidding. They like you. Well, most of them like you. And only a few of them like me, so if we're comparing popularity –"

"They don't like me. They pity me. Do you really, really believe I am that stupid that I think Mary Beth and the rest of those tramps talk to me out of interest? Out of likeness?" I prattled. "Or that I think Dutch's behavior towards me is anything more than just a ploy? As if a man like him could ever care for me? Just….just like you could ever care for me."

I rearranged my position to fight the prospering discomfort.

"I know I'm weak, Arthur. I know I serve little to no purpose. I know I'm too timid to be interesting, too afraid to be interesting as well, and I know you all see me as a pathetic rich girl, whose problems could never compare to yours. And none of you are wrong. Cigarette, please." I took another puff as the stick trembled between my fingers, only to find no relief. "Maybe in my own idiotic way, lying to Dutch and you about Saint Denis and knowing how to shoot and accepting those drinks, it was me trying to disapprove the rest of you, along with myself, that I don't belong. But the reality has always been that I will never belong, here, or anywhere else. The only reason I even came to Saint Denis was because my father was tired of arriving home and seeing his pathetic, aging daughter too tired, too unmotivated, too broken to even dress in the morning, who relied on books of adventures she never go on and people she'd never be to fulfill whatever little life she had. He says it was for my sister and myself to experience the world, but it was only to pawn me off that goddamn mayor, so he didn't have to see the ugly sight of me anymore."

"For hating your daddy so much you sure seem to care a lot about how he sees you," observed Arthur.

My shoulders limply shrugged. "I suppose so. I suppose I don't even hate him seeing as all the things I've done to try to gain his approval. He was my father after all. Approval shouldn't even be something I had to fight for. Makes you think, how awful, how pitiful someone must be that their own father can't even love them. At least he stayed, though…Mama didn't."

"What happened to her anyway?"

"She died."

"I don't mean to pry, I just – "

"She shot herself with a pistol." Again, my shoulders shrugged. "He was unfaithful with my governess, well I wouldn't call her that, she wasn't qualified, she was just hired due to her appearance. It was the main gossip with the servants and quickly, it was the main topic among all the elite businessmen and their wives who claimed to be my mama's friends. They pitied her to her face but laughed behind her back…. like all people do. The humiliation and anger and sadness had deteriorated her at that point she couldn't speak. She never ate. She didn't bathe. I tried to care for her…. but when she looked at me, I saw this hatred, this resentment as if the disappointment I caused my father had left him disappointed in her.

"And one day, when he had forgotten to slip her the laudanum him and doctors were deceiving her with, she just walked into his study, pull out one of his pistols and died. She saw me at the doorway, I asked her if she wanted to go for a stroll through the garden and uh…. she pulled that trigger and uh, I should have done something. I should have stopped her, they all said I should have. If I had just done something." I paused for a moment and begun to laugh. "If I had just been better, if I just had tried to be someone else, maybe – You know, I think, I like to believe for her, living with the pain of knowing her husband never loved her, his choices were meant to humiliate her, living with that every day would have broken her heart. So, she broke mine instead."

I was the perfect imagine of that mortifying, pitiful women the others portrayed me as in that moment. There I was doling selfishly over my own past problems while steadily sobering from a night of drinking. I wept like a child, crying over something so petty, something I should have moved on from. The vivid memory wavered in my mind, narrated by a foreign voice assuring me it was my fault. I had forgotten Arthur, I had forgotten everyone, in that time, due to my own tactless behavior.

His voice rippled through the relentless thoughts. "Hey, Amelia, come on, look at me. I didn't mean what I said. Hell, we took you from your home and you still have done more for us than most of the others. Molly and Swanson, sure their situations are different, but I don't think Dutch would ever go to them for help. Bill, wouldn't take Molly as bait."

"I think that's because Swanson is too ill and Dutch, well he despises Molly," I objected.

"Sure, all I'm saying is Dutch wouldn't keep you if he didn't see something in you," pressed Arthur. "He sure as shit wouldn't be letting you come with us, especially with him struggling to get more money. I just want you to be careful. You'll learn a lot more about Dutch in time, about all of us, and we're not as good as you may think. We've done a lot of bad things. A lot of things we're running from now. You get wrapped into those kinds of things and you're not going to get out."

"You…are." Seeing Arthur's expression twist, I laughed. "You're as good as I think. Dutch wouldn't have endured listening to me, no less any of the others. You're sensible. Kind. A bit angry and reserved, but your situation warrants for that… I don't know what you've all done or been through, but at least you did something with it. I've wasted a lifetime locked away, burying everything inside until I was only those things. You put the rest of them out there before you, always have."

His head quickly bowed, shifting his gaze in a new direction. In only a glimpse I saw a faint smile break through his vacant stare. "That might be the whiskey talking. But thanks, I, uh, thanks. And while I don't know why you would want to, you do belong."

For a third and final time, I shrugged. Yet, despite my careless appearance, his words delighted me. They fulfilled the void I had carried. Looking at him made the emptiness subsided. He was no longer daunting. Nothing was. Life wasn't a narrow path of colorless uncertainty anymore. It was open, filled with opportunity and freedom. It was the first time in my life I truly felt alive.

Arthur drew to his feet with a sigh. "You should really get some rest. We'll talk more in the morning."

I slunk farther into the cot and succumbed to the teeming weariness. His exiting footsteps muffled as I dozed off. The last ounce of energy I maintained opened my eyes at the sound's sudden halt. Lurking at the doorway, Arthur's glanced out to the hall, only to peer back at me.

"You…you really doubt I care about you?" he inquired after a silent delay.

"…. No. Not anymore."

* * *

**Yes, I have finally returned, my beautiful readers! I was busy on an 8 month soul searching, intense cleansing experience...No, not really, I was actually at home most days watching Springer and eating HoHos. I had a bit of a dry spell in my writing, to be honest, as in I wanted to burn every word I wrote because it was that horrible! But I noticed I was gaining some more followers and we're all bored as hell in this really strange time and I love you guys, so here's a chapter...that sucked. But it's here nonetheless. Yah! Okay, well until next week, you guys stay safe out there in this crazy world. Remember, you're harder to kidnap when you're fatter. Stay safe, eat cake! Oh, and follow, favorite or review if you want to blah, blah, blah! **


	12. Chapter 12

It be a lie to say Arthur didn't lose appeal when he traded his tattered undershirt and duster coat for a pallid dress shirt and ebony tailed coat. It was even more of a lie to say I didn't detest the reason for the sudden change.

Angelo Bronte, a greasy and fiendish, yet affluent foreigner, Dutch described him as, had informally invited them to a party for the elite. Of all the haughty citizens Saint Denis had to offer and parties they host, it was one of the mayor's, of course. The idea of him, the idea of that night, struck me ill. But Dutch was adamant to attend. Arthur was less, but too docile to reject. They had recruited Bill to join as well. I have no logical theory on why. Dutch compensated with bringing Hosea along too. He was, in fact, the only experienced one from what I had gathered. Conning and pick pocketing fulfilled his younger days.

"Mr. Strauss, Amelia," greeted Arthur, once he emerged from hours fretting over his new apparel.

"Ah, Herr Morgan. You do clean up well," admired Strauss.

"I wouldn't go that far. What are you two doing?" he inquired.

"I am redefining Miss Cornwall's poker skills, to spare her from anymore humiliation with Herr Pearson," he said.

It was the start of an unlikely friendship between Strauss and I. We had both taken shelter in the house after finding ourselves succumbing to the heat and mosquitoes. With him he brought a deck of cards and with them he gave me another thorough teaching on the game of poker. It was a chance to redeem myself with Pearson, whose over – sized, self – satisfied grin still lurked in my mind.

"Mr. Strauss here is a man of great patients," I chirped.

Arthur's expression shifted. His fingers crept down to his cuffs as he begun to fiddle with them. "Sure he is, with this."

"Have you paid a visit to that Davison man?" Strauss reminded.

"No," he sighed. "I'll get to it when I can."

"The sooner the better."

Dutch strutted through the door, he too sharing the same attire as Arthur. Though Dutch possessed enough self – assurance to adopt the appearance. Arthur was lost in his.

"Are you coming?" grumbled Dutch. I hadn't witnessed such a seething tone since his conversation with Molly.

Saint Denis and its people had crept beneath all our skins.

"Yeah, I'm coming" chided Arthur. "Few days in the city and its got you worrying about time like a damn errand boy. The others all ready?"

"They are. I know you don't trust me on this, son, but I feel, I know, Saint Denis has something there for us. And with the help of this Bronte fella and a bit of sneaking around, we're going to find it."

I glanced towards Strauss. "Strange, all I found was new ways to hate myself in that city."

Dutch was too agitated by Arthur's dawdling to hear or care and Arthur was still searching for an escape. Though as soon as Dutch begun towards the door, Arthur trudged behind.

"Remember, gentlemen," I instructed, before they entered the outside, "these people are different from those you've met before. They're stupider. Which, you might think that makes them easier to handle. That's not the case because you can't kill them if something goes wrong. Well…you can, it will just cause more panic than usual. Don't try to outwit them. Or outshine them. They may come off as confident, but on the inside their egos are as frail as me or Mr. Strauss, here."

Arthur's lips lifted into a high-level smile. "Looks like you're going to fit right in Dutch!"

* * *

"What this?" queried Arthur upon his return from the party. Waving between his fingers were the several dollars previously lolling on the end table.

I was stretched across his cot, nose and mind deep within a book. The lack of amusement it delivered made my attention shift quickly towards him. "My repayment."

He looked delighted, while equally stunned.

"Sure…and how did you get it?" he continued.

"Mr. Strauss was kind enough to farther teach me the game of poker. And when that didn't work well, he taught me a somewhat…different strategy," I explained. "That worked so well I actually emerged victorious."

Arthur stripped off his coat. "Oh yeah? What strategy was that?"

"You should take the whole outfit off…." I murmured. "You look ridiculous."

"I don't think anything old Strauss taught you is worth remembering."

"It wasn't the most dignified, I'll admit. One might saying cheating, but in the end I won."

His eyes narrowed.

"He sat behind the others and gestured for me when to fold and when to call."

He couldn't resist an airy chuckle. As he unbuttoned his ebony vest, he indulged on tales of the night; Bronte was expecting them – it seemed he always was – and provided them possible opportunity for an easy score. Saint Denis' trolley station. He insisted there was a forlorn stash of money waiting to be grabbed. Sometime after that the men lingered among the other guest, collecting information from ease dropping. In all the mayhem, Arthur had encountered Mayor Lemieux. Arthur never knew him long enough to regard his eerie and upsetting truth. The night was not a waste, though. In addition to the discovery of the trolley, talk of a riverboat, a game ship, set to depart while carrying some of Saint Denis finest, hoovered. So did the mentioning of a city bank.

Dutch was ardent to the discovery, but Arthur weary – weary and drained from enduring the honeyed elite and his forced performance. That feeling was an old familiar for me.

"They sound like they're still as awful as always," I sighed, while watching Arthur stretch across the barrels lining the corner of the wall. Rest came effortlessly for him.

Finding no use in remaining up, I readjusted myself onto the coat and begun to drift into a world of black. While the camp descended into sleep, Dutch was still prowling around, seeking out someone so he could appease himself from the ideas and plans buzzing in his mind. With no one up, he burst through Arthur's door in speech, retrieving us from our daze.

Seeing Dutch so gaily, so fervid, I was more allured than frustrated.

"Now, I've been thinking, son," he started.

"Uh – oh. That's never a good sign," countered Arthur, who remained flat on his barrel, with eyes closed.

"Very amusing, Arthur," said Dutch, his tone sharpening. "No, I've been thinking about that trolley Bronte told us about. The way he talks, there's some money in that. Easy money. But I need time to think about it."

"Dutch, I could come along," I offered. His dark and charming appearance always left me feeling like a dainty, prattling child.

"You know I appreciate your spirit, Amelia," he assured. His honey words had me tickled. "But this, this is a job meant for those experienced, not aspiring."

Arthur shifted up. "What about the riverboat you heard about?"

He paused for a moment. He had teased a few ideas, before settling on one. "I think you should reach out to Trelawny. I'm sure he'll know how to get you in there. And why don't you bring Amelia as well? I'm thinking, you and him are going to catch a lot less stares if you go in with her around one of your arms. You'll blend in perfectly."

Had I not been harboring my humiliation and resentment towards his prior comment, my muddle mind would have saw Dutch's proposal as an apology. Or perhaps faith in me. Though, in the grand schemes of things, I was just an accessory, a piece in the plan.

"Why not one of the other women?" suggested Arthur, farther goading my apprehension.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because we're getting her awfully close to her daddy's friends," he advised. "This riverboat ain't going to be like Saint Denis where we can hide her if there's a problem."

"The way I see it, old Cornwall's has stopped looking."

"I don't think he was ever looking," I murmured, in attempt to meander myself back into their conversation and remind them of my existence.

"So has the law."

"Again, never looking."

"No one will be noticing her with a pair of cards in their hands." Dutch begun to shuffle us. "We are almost home. I know it."

* * *

Saint Denis' pier was teeming that afternoon. Groups of the high society boarded the three – story steamboat with a deceptive confidence in their eyes. The humming of the waves was a forlorn sound to their self – indulged chatter. With the ascending numbers of guests flashing before me, my mind couldn't resist drawing back and heeding Arthur's words. We were close to my father's friends, or more likely foes, though it meant the same in the end.

Strauss, himself orchestrating the plan with the help of Trelawny, assured me he left no loose ends and therefore, no opportunity for chaos.

"I do enjoy a good ruse without the need for violence," he admitted. "I've always been a man of intelligence, before brawns."

Javier covertly rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't be too sure about that. Violence has a way of finding us."

While Strauss was adamant, he was equally and surprisingly quite on matter after that. Each of us were until Arthur and Trelawny proceeded from penurious side of the city. Arthur had adopted the role of a newly discovered oil man. His accounts were bursting with new money to risk and risk it he would in game with several other tycoon; one the renown hosiery magnate Desmond Blythe. Strauss would take a chair and obscure himself from the action, though his eyes were always upon it. Similar to my game with Pearson, Strauss' position left him in view of Desmond's cards. A nod was to call. A patter on the leg was to fold. To better assist Arthur achieving victory and claiming Desmond's peril fortune, Trelawny had grown keen with the dealer.

Desmond Blythe.

The name rung in my mind as we boarded the Grand Korrigan riverboat. Javier slipped away a moment after, to acquire a new and stolen job as a guard. Despite Strauss' aversion for hostility, the others were cautious. The amble towards the games was spent with Arthur expressing his growing doubt, which never vanished or even eased to Trelawny's confidence. I was too delighted to be apart of it all and too high strung to relive that personal hell I believed I had escaped. Beyond the doors of the meandering corridor was the main hall, where several tables were spread across, providing guests each with a different game.

A musician concealed himself on the side, creating a feathery and nimble tune with each key stroke from his piano. Though the noise was consistently interrupted by howls of victory. Chandeliers illuminated overhead, making the gold – trimmed walls gleam. It was a becoming and dreary site.

"Now don't lose too much or you'll wife will surely kill me!" advised Trelawny and guided him towards the center table. "Best I find her and myself a cocktail."

Arthur halted and inclined towards Trelawny's ear. "Just keep an eye on her with that drink."

With the advice noted, Trelawny escorted me to the bar that was hidden at the end of the room. A bartender waited eagerly to ail the unfortunate. I was expecting a quiet between Trelawny and myself, that or a trite conversation that ended as soon as it begun. But he was a silvery charmer, like Dutch with less of an appearance. At the arrival of our cocktails, he had already covered several topics and was indulging into several more.

I glanced back to Arthur, where he was producing his own enamoring performance. The haughty Desmond Blythe's fleeting grin assured me the ploy was working.

"That hosiery man," I muttered. "I…I swear I've seen him before."

"There was a time his photo was in every clothing store," chortled Trelawny.

"Huh. I suppose that sadly is it," I sighed and glanced back to him.

His expression had softened. "Our dear Arthur seems to be right about you. You are not like these fools in the slightest."

"Perhaps jaded like them and only slightly smarter," I murmured with my lips embracing the rim of my glass.

"I suppose not only staying with your captors, but establishing yourself within them, I cannot disagree."

I nodded. "Look around though. Tireless women, living in their husband's fame and fortune's shadow. Men competing with each because despite having everything, they must still have more. And hosiery kings! I was once of these strutting corpses. Not anymore."

He roused his drink and clinked it against mine.

From the corner of our eyes, Blythe was trudging close. Defeat had colored his face red. The flinty stare he wore was drawn to the bar, where he collapsed his weight against the table. Strauss had skulked to the side. Arthur was gone and from the curl of Desmond's lips, I assumed he was collecting his undeserved winnings.

Trelawny crept close to console. He offered Desmond a drink, but like a punished child he was too infuriated to listen. Anger spoke for him.

"There's something ironic about that bumpkin oil man you came with," he groaded. "Seems like an unlikely case of beginner's luck."

"Whatever are you implying?" pressed Trelawny. "Now he may still have the manners of a common yokel. You will have to blame his family of rail worker for that. But he is an honest man. What gentlemen, with newfound fortunate, accompanies his wife on one of the finest riverboats, only to sully his reputation by cheating?"

"I don't know but –" Desmond's words strangled at the sight of me. The gears in his mind spun as he tried to match me with a past memory. Of all the parties he attended and businessmen he acquainted with, it was hard, just as it was easy to remember that one guest, that one tycoon's daughter, who cowered in the corner. Never did she speak. She flinched at introductions and retreated at attempts of conversation. She was easily forgotten when the others weren't mocking her.

But Desmond, he remembered.

* * *

**I have returned my few and fellow readers! And this chapter is feelings...a little dull? Perhaps I'll come back to spice it up. Although, lets be honest here, if this story was a spice it would be flour. Ooh, burn on myself. Anyways, I want to thank you all for following and favoriting and even reviewing! Seeing those notifications in my email is like the butter you put on your popcorn at the movie theater. You guys are amazing! Well, review if you'd like, follow or favorite or don't. I have no control over your life. Hell, barely have any over my own! Until next time, be safe in this crazy world and remember when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout!**


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